


Magic Consulting Colleagues: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes

by Bugsyboo1313



Series: Magic Consulting Colleagues [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hogwarts Second Year, Multi, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsyboo1313/pseuds/Bugsyboo1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Hello fellow Sherlockians! I am back with the second part of my Potterlock series. If you haven't read part one yet, I suggest heading over to my profile right now and reading MCC: Fear Is A Choice.</p><p>WARNINGS: descriptive/disturbing images, language, violence, etc.</p><p>*Johnlock cuteness thrown in ;-)</p><p>*Humor and jokes to other TV shows and movies in here.</p><p>*Feel free to review however many times you'd like, whenever you want!</p><p>*Sherlock Holmes and John Watson return for their second year at Hogwarts. More surprises and mysteries are in stock for them. Friendships become more developed, magic skills are more complex, and Sherlock discovered something that may just show him what he wants most in life. Rated T. Please review!</p><p>I do not own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. They belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and J.K. Rowling. All original story ideas belong to them. I make no money off of this story. It is for entertainment purposes only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twelve

**Magic Consulting Colleagues: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (#2)**

**WARNINGS:**   _Language, Violence, Descriptive/Scary Images_

 **Rated:**   _Teen +_

 **Categories:**   _Potterlock, Kidlock, Johnlock_

 **Summary:**   _Sherlock and John are back for their second year at Hogwarts._

_***I do not own BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter. All characters and related items belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and J.K. Rowling. This story was written for entertainment purposes only.*** _

_**~ Please enjoy and take the time to write a comment or short review on the whole story. I want to get as much feedback as possible about my writing. Than** **ks! ~** _

**  
**

* * *

** Chapter One **

Twelve

* * *

 

A young boy winched at a sharp pain that pinched his finger, a splinter digging in as a result of twirling a woodchip in his palm. As soon as the tiny fraction entered the first layer of skin he let the chunk fall to the ground harshly, settling to join thousands of replicas of itself. The boy did not pick up another one as he'd learned from his stupid mistake and lesson while hurting himself in the process.

The sun beat down as if to strangle him, sending flowing rays to hit the black All Stars that protected his stumbling feet. He kept shuffling them about, tapping them together or weaving them in and out of each other. It was hard for him to sit still after an unfortunate incident that almost took his life in his previous school year. This boy was not just an ordinary human; through the developing years of his infant stage, the kid with blonde locks for hair was possessed with a special ability that only a select population of the world could master.

He was a wizard.

The boy sat alone on a child swing set at the deserted local primary school playground, gently pushing his shoes off the pile of woodchips to rock back and forth. Not a living soul was in sight as he contemplated things on his own. This was the same school he went to as a younger student, only then he hadn't known his best friend then like he did now; the friend he'd met by learning about a certain school devoted to magic from. Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry.

A long stick with curved patterns and smooth bark was stuffed in his khaki shorts' pocket, but very few people understood the true power the wand could produce. He kept it with him yet hidden at all times, just in case the need arose to defend himself in a life-threatening situation.

He continued to swing freely in the sweltering heat, a frown permanently on his face and his red polo shirt consuming sweat stains on his back. A blue bike was leaning up against the nearby construction set poles, sparkling in the sun with an empty water bottle under the pedal chain. Perspiration was dripping down his back in large droplets, making his throat beg for water and his hair bangs stick to his forehead.

What he held in his hand was something a child would not normally carry around with them. The pocket radio was making gurgling noises as he tried to tune it. He had a strange addiction to Muggle music and always found himself singing along to various beats, knowing almost all of the lyrics. The device belched fuzziness at him once more and he shook the broken electronic, extending out the antenna to try and gather a signal. By tilting it for multiple attempts, he finally collected a faint DJ beat coming to fill his hearing. The song he'd caught wasn't very old, as it had been released early that same year. He kicked in easily and soon began to sing along, tapping a steady staccato on his thigh.

_Feel my way through the darkness,_

_Guided by a beating heart._

_I can't tell where the journey will end,_

_But I know where to start._

The radio gave off a high-pitched shriek and the blonde flinched at the ear-splitting screech, smacking the useless provider of music so it cooperated with him.

_I tried carrying the weight of the world,_

_But I only have two hands._

_Hope I get the chance to travel the world,_

_Cause I don't have any plans._

Another verse picked up and instead of lip singing he hummed the tune, his sounds rising and falling perfectly to the melodious pitch.

_Wish that I could stay forever this young,_

_Not afraid to close my eyes._

_Life's a game made for everyone,_

_And love is a prize._

The song faded for large gaps and then came back as clear as fresh water for some periods, but the notes died off and cut short much sooner than he wanted them to. He was left in total silence for several long, drawn out moments until he was able to boost his signal and discover the next tune on the playlist. However, he was only able to hear the few lines of the chorus through the obnoxious bellows of static he received instead.

_I know that it's gonna take some time,_

_I've got to admit that the thought has crossed my mind,_

_This might end up like it should._

_And I'm gonna say what I need to say,_

_And hope to God that it don't scare you away,_

_I don't wanna be misunderstood._

_But I'm starting to believe that,_

_This could be the start of something good._

And then the radio cackled a final time and died, ending the muffled sound effects and cutting off sharply. The boy sighed and turned it over in his hand, muttering, "Stupid thing…Needs new batteries," and chucked it aside.

He suddenly felt a vibration coming from his outer knee area and flung his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cheap cell phone his parents gave him years ago in case of an emergency. That's not what he used it for now. He liked and tended to text his best friend in his free time; that is when he wasn't hanging around with him.

Black letters in a dedicated font stared at him on the screen, and he had to squint his eyes to read the message against the blinding sunshine. His brain took in the words and he realized it was a text from a boy who lived in a neighborhood close by to his.

**Father just left for work. Ministry stuff. 'Top secret' apparently. Would you maybe want to meet up later in the afternoon? –SH**

The boy who'd gotten the text sat debating what he really did want to do. After a little while, he sent a short reply.

**Don't know yet. –JW**

A response came back almost instantly.

**What's that supposed to mean? –SH**

He rolled his eyes.

**I'll think about it. –JW**

Silence surrounded him once more until about five minutes later, another beep came from his phone.

**Where are you by the way? I've been looking for you for ages. –SH**

**I'm over at my old primary school. Been sitting on the swings for about two hours now. –JW**

**John, you're going to get dehydrated. –SH**

That was the first time somebody had silently spoken his name through a communicator that day. Sherlock only used his name in text messages when he was extremely concerned or proving a point. Not serving as a good example of a best friend, the boy named John sent Holmes a lie back.

**I'll be fine. I've got a bottle of water with me. -JW**

The answer he got in return made him consider traveling back home as soon as possible.

**John, you know you can't stay outside for that long. The heat will be too much after a while. It's over 100 degrees and I'm sure you'll end up with sunburn if you sit there any longer. –SH**

Watson heaved a deep sigh, grabbing hold of the swing chain with one arm. With many topics of arguments, his body concluded it would be best to start the ten minute ride home.

**Be back in a little bit. –JW**

But he didn't move. He even told his best friend Sherlock Holmes that he was going to ride his bike back to his house yet he didn't get up from his seat. His gaze, focused intently on the tan ground, slowly transferred to his right. A crumbled newspaper was lying beside the front tire of his bicycle, words floating around the page and images moving in synchronization. In the wizarding world, pictures and words were bewitched to move around on tapestries and paper, making the world of magic 'unique' when it came to informational history and news.

Watson didn't know why he had a weekly junk copy of the new wizard paper The Daily Prophet, but he bent over gingerly and took the thin news article in his hands anyway. The presence of it displeased him but he needed to have a scoop on what was going on in the wizarding world over the summer holiday. The parchment looked cream colored in the daylight and he was familiar with the faces staring up at him. One photograph shocked him the most, being smack dab in the center of the front page. The head article was titled "Dementors Evacuated From Hogwarts, Returned Back To Azkaban."

Curious, his eyes traveled down the page to read the first couple sentences about the week's head story.

" _After a tragic event that occurred at the end of the Hogwarts school term and nearly killed two first-year students, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has dismissed the Azkaban guards from the grounds and sent them back to their prison. The two boys involved in the incident were claimed to be chased through the Forbidden Forest by the dementors and then were attacked on the shore of the Black Lake, almost taking the life of the shorter student with blonde hair. The Ravenclaw was seen defending both boys from potential danger and collapsing at the Gryffindor's side. When he woke up a few days later, he was back to normal in no time. Both boys successfully recovered."_

"Yeah, just barely," John said to himself. He skipped over a large paragraph until a quote and a name caught his eye; the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

"' _Some of the professors who teach at the school were told from Holmes that it was Slytherin Jim Moriarty who was behind the attack, but the Ministry has no proof of this for evidence and therefore cannot punish Mr. Moriarty for his actions.'"_

"What?" John yelled out in rage at Fudge's own words, not believing Moriarty could get away with something so serious as threatening two first years' lives.  _I never should believe this rubbish,_ he told himself. Eyebrows bowed in anger, he continued to scan the bottom of the page to collect a bit of information on the Slytherin's father.

" _Jim Moriarty's father works in the Department of the Muggle-born Registration Commission offices and has indeed been keeping a close eye on Watson, as he is a Muggleborn."_

 _What? That's a typo,_ John noticed, aware that he was a half-blood and had one wizard parent. Finishing up the article, his eyes wandered the page and fell back on the image of the dementors of Azkaban.

The deranged, hooded monsters were attempting to suck the engraved image of themselves from the magazine, hiding their faces with ragged, grey cloaks. Their scabby, green hands were longing to drag John's face into the paper so they could destroy his soul forever. His encounter with them last year left his life hanging on the edge of a knife, struggling to survive with such a weakness as only the strongest wizards can overcome.

For dementors feed on nothing else but a person's innocent life, planning to strike and kill when available. What they leave behind is a frightening and piercing cold, drowning the victim in a wave of depression as they capture all your happy memories.

John had a bigger disadvantage when he'd discovered last year that the creatures could hurt you so much as to fool you that your loved ones were potentially dying to save your life. When Sherlock had suggested they practice defending themselves from the guards of Azkaban, he'd had a horrible experience with noises in his head that he never expected. Every time he was exposed to a dementor, an agonizing scream would blare in his ears, but he was the only one who could explain it since no one else could hear it. Not only that, but he also frequently heard the blast of an explosion. And it wasn't just it ordinary scream…

It was Sherlock's scream.

That night on the lake shore a Slytherin schoolmate named Jim Moriarty had tortured him so bad that he believed he was witnessing the death of his friend right then and there, when in fact the Ravenclaw was coming to rescue him from a kidnapping. Moriarty had made him shout out in grief with ease, shaking all his limbs and eventually ending his medieval scheme with stabbing the Gryffindor in the neck and injecting poison into his blood. He was lucky enough that his body could take the weight and he fully recovered from the liquid and a stomach injury in a reasonable amount of days.

John closed his eyes and curled his right hand into a fist, letting The Daily Prophet slide down his pants a few centimeters. He felt some strange warm wave run over his skin, a bubble that was sewing up the scratches of his injuries. When he slowly unclasped his hand, the tiny wooden splinter had vanished and his fingerprint had returned to normal.

Following sitting in the heat for another quarter of an hour, John made himself stand up and head off home. As he placed his hands on his knees and prepared to push up into an upright position, he flicked his wrist to check the time on his watch. 14:39. The date also stood out to him, yet he didn't show nearly as much interest as he should have.

July 7th.

Exhaling with the thought of having such a rough life, John gathered his items and shoved them into a spare bag he'd borrowed from his mum. He undid the cap on his water bottle to see if there had been any chance of some last drops, but none fell on his tongue when he tilted the cup at a 75 degree angle. Disappointed, he disposed of it and placed it back in the holder under the seat.

He kicked the stopper and began to walk his bike on up the winding road, waiting till he'd used the crosswalk to start pedaling. He tried to turn the radio on again while it was strapped to the handles, but it did no good as the device had completely given out. He swung his leg over the padded seat and took off, his bag draped over his back and his black All Stars glued to their platforms.

Twice he had to pull over to fix his hair, as it had grown a few inches since his last haircut and now his front bangs stuck out flatly almost farther than his nose. He kept his blonde locks neatly combed and parted slightly off center, his individual hairs sweeping over his skull with an extra flip in front as a finishing touch. Watson could definitely tell sweat droplets drenched his hair as he continued to ride along the edge of the road; he buried his hand back into his luggage and revealed a hand towel with the TARDIS sewn on it and dabbed his shining face. He kept the cloth curved over his shoulder along the ride so he could use it when necessary.

As he got closer to one of the busiest streets in town he heard many car horns beeping at him when he swerved to avoid obstacles in the road. Blinkers warned him of incoming cabs and the crosswalk signs turned white with a stick figure man to indicate that he could walk over the thick stripes in the road. Small businesses run by affectionate families lined the sidewalks, and he briefly glanced in the windows as he rode by on his bike.

Something in particular caught his eye as he passed a clothing store his mother loved to shop at. Dozens of scarves were displayed in the window and one reminded him of Sherlock's scarf he'd given him for Christmas. The child detective loved that scarf. He carried it during all his vacations and wore in during any season of the year.

His vision in the glass substituted and he was able to see the town background behind him, bustling with parents and couples who were trying not to die from the overbearing sun. Not too far ahead the road split in a 'V' shape and a gas station was built in between the intersections. Curious, he reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out some money, suddenly becoming more grateful as the thought of fresh water conquered his mind.

He made sure the road was clear before heading on over to buy a drink, careful to dodge the cars parked out front and the ones that were being filled up with fuel. Very fragile about who stole his possessions, he secured his bike to a rack with a lock and headed inside. The air-conditioned room felt so glorious on his cheeks, and he stayed where he was for a few moments to appreciate the coolness.

He went straight for the refrigerated section of the mini market and scanned the rows of energy drinks, finally spotting a freezer devoted to H₂O. His hand almost froze as he reached in to grab one on the bottom, the label crinkling against his fingernails. His stomach grumbled as he headed for the register and decided to pick up a quick snack as well. He found a shelf with energy bars but noticed cookies instead and selected a nut-free package, trying to cut low on the salts and sugars.  _Why not enjoy a couple cookies?_   _After all, it is a very special day for me._

He smiled at the man at the register to show that he was friendly, delicately placing his purchases on the counter. There was a beep each time an item was scanned and the shopper listened for the amount needed to be paid. The cashier told him the price and John eagerly handed over his money.

"Thanks," John said, shuffling his items back. "Have a nice day," he wished.

"You too," the polite man told him. "Try not to stay outside for long. The heat's brutal."

John chuckled. "I won't. Thank you."

The young boy braced himself and rolled his eyes before pushing the shop door open with a jolt of his arm. The temperature melted him as he took one step out the door and scooted off to the side to munch on his delicious treat. He threw the wrapper away in a nearby trashcan before sinking his teeth into the vanilla flavor and smiling to himself.

"Happy birthday, John." He licked his lips, feeling the need to announce the important day to himself out loud. He was just 365 days from becoming a teenager, a scary thought that he didn't want to process too quickly.

Today, he turned twelve.

The cookie was swallowed in his throat with ease and he washed the last crumbs down with a swig of store-bought water. Already feeling 50% better, he swapped out his old water bottle with the new one and unlocked the key chain with his code. It was a four digit password that he'd randomly set a code to and didn't intend to change it for many years to come.

7437.

A vibration from his pocket told him that someone had texted him again. It wasn't a surprise when he pulled it out to find that it was from Sherlock.

**Gotten any more progress done on your book? –SH**

John was half sitting half standing while he tried to find the answer for the brunette. As a returning home gift last year his mum had given him a journal to write in. At first John thought it was a pointless present, seeing as he never wrote in his free time. But then when his parent had asked if he'd used it, she suggested an entertaining idea that would keep him occupied for a long while and help him develop a new skill. Every morning she listened to him rant about his school adventures with Sherlock, leaving out bits and pieces so she wouldn't get worried so much.

When she'd heard quite a load and was delighted to hear more, she suggested that he write it down as a story; to become an author. John was shocked himself by how much of his first year he'd remembered, and yet there was so much he left out as he wrote his tale. He wanted it to be entertaining and contain the most important parts of his educational years at Hogwarts so he could one day tell them to his children.

_That is if I have any…_

He completely spaced out and almost didn't send a digital message back before biking back down the street.

**I think I've gotten a chapter and a half done. Should have a large chunk written by the end of summer. –JW**

He was becoming too hot with his shirt on so it was thrown over his head as he took it off. Underneath it he was wearing a camouflaged Army tank top that showed off his upper arm muscles, clinging to his stomach and stretching down to cover his belt. He looked very much like a young soldier, doing his best of an impression of his father who'd joined the Army when John was a young lad. His body was quite stocky for a young boy, and he'd gained a lot of muscle over the summer from a few sports camps he did with a group of buddies. He now almost didn't have any fat in his stomach at all, but part of that problem was the fact that he'd lost a lot of weight from his strenuous recovery in the hospital wing.

He wiped the perspiration from his face one more time before making room in his bag for his polo shirt. A bit of sweat fell off his eyebrow and stung in his eye, forcing him to rub his irresistibly blue irises from any further damage. Flexing his muscles and stretching out his calves, he put his arms through his bag straps and prepared for the two mile bike back to his neighborhood.

* * *

John tried to play a little game while he biked down the road, attempting to keep the handles straight and coast directly over the white line acting as a boundary for the edge of the pavement. By looking down and keeping his eyes fixed on the road he was able to remain out of the way of traffic and somehow find himself turning onto his street sooner than expected.

He skidded over the small pile of pebbles at the base of his home's driveway and parked his ride in the garage, breathing out a sigh of relief that he'd made it to his destination unscathed. He slipped under the closing door as he made to enter the front door, unlocking it with a spare key his mum had set on the dining room table for him.

He was utterly confused when he heard the echo of the television coming from the room to his left just down the hallway. His bedroom was just past the living room on the ground floor, making it easy for him to roll out of bed in the morning and cook breakfast. He entered the open area and stood in the doorway to find his older sister Harriet sprawled on the leather couch.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, not in a rude way but needing to know. She'd developed quite a temper with her younger brother ever since he'd showed her his special talent, using hand magic to make a stone float in the meadow between his neighborhood and Sherlock's.

"Why do you think? I'm not planning on going anywhere this summer." John rolled his eyes at her laziness.

"Ok, then answer me this; where's Mum?"

"She's out."

"I know that…"  _I'm not stupid Harry,_ he grumbled, keeping the remark in his mind. "Out where?"

"To get groceries. She was gone after you'd left so early this morning. You would've known if you came home earlier."

"I didn't get up that early. Mum must have just been tired. I got up around 8:30," he pointed out. John narrowed his eyes and left his mouth agape as he was starting to get ticked off at his sibling. He turned to go but paused when he noticed what was playing on the screen.

"What are you watching?" he suddenly wondered, leaning on the cushions that rested on the back of the couch.

"Elementary."

"Really? You're watching American telly?"  _God, America is known for some crazy things, but by far Great Britain has better shows on TV._

"Stop judging me, John," Harriet snapped at him, arching her neck to give him a fierce stare. The birthday brother put up his hands in innocence.

"What's it even about?" he questioned, scrunching up his face as a pair of grownups went running by on the screen.

"A detective who solves cases." For once her tone sounded normal.

John snorted, noting that the room became brighter from the sunlight pouring into the room through the panes of glass. "Sherlock's totally better," he stated, and with that undeniable comment left Harriet to her own business.

His feet carried him into the kitchen and he threw his sneakers into his bedroom as he passed by, longing for a proper lunch. He scanned the cupboards and fridge for some decent food and found a container of noodles hidden behind the milk. Saving a plate he stuck the plastic bowl in the microwave and set a cook time to heat up his afternoon meal. While the appliance hummed in his ear and the strands of spaghetti popped from the torridness, he fished to start a conversation with Sherlock.

**I take back what I said earlier. You can come on over in about an hour. –JW**

The microwave gave off a ding noise and signaled that his lunch was ready to eat. He sprinkled some parmesan cheese over the noodles to add a bit of flavor and sat down at the bar overlooking the kitchen and dining room in their two-floored house. His phone buzzed again, and he picked it up immediately and giggled at Sherlock's agreement.

**Sounds good. I can't stand Mycroft right now. Being his usual git self. Always helps to be around someone like you. –SH**

John's deep blue eyes flashed at the heart-warming fact Holmes had shared with him. He decided to share his thoughts with his best friend about his difficult sibling as well.

**It's not just you. Harriet's also giving me a hard time. She's almost always like that though... –JW**

_Perfect timing._  His sister strutted into the kitchen to fling open a cupboard above the stove, pulling down the box of crackers and…

"Hey, that's my strawberry jam…" John cut in, causing her to glare at him as he tried to prove his point.

"So?"

"Mum bought that for me. Besides, don't you have nutella in there somewhere?" Watson was trying to do anything to make her stay away from his belongings.

"Why does it matter if I eat your jam or not? Mum can always just buy another jar," she argued, becoming even more stubborn. John was not going to lose this fight.

"Because that's for my breakfast! I can't tell Mum to get another container because I didn't know it was so low…Why don't you just keep your paws off and use peanut butter or something?" He felt stupid and shut his eyes tightly.

"God, you can't even remember that your own sister has peanut allergies, John."

"It's not my fault!" he shouted. "You have no idea what I've been through this past year! Jesus, Harry. Can't you be nice and respectful to me just for one day? You never give me any credit for anything."

"What am I doing wrong?" she shouted back, and John opened his mouth even wider.

"I am asking you a simple question: may you please not eat my strawberry jam?" he said, being specific and dropping his harshness to try and be kinder.

Harriet continued to hold the container in her hand. After a couple noiseless seconds she found some words to say back. "I really don't see what the big deal is little brother." She turned on her heel and took the spread with her, ignoring John's request.

"Of all days, you can't even be nice to me on my birthday," John mumbled, twirling his fork to fling a couple noodles around.

He couldn't stand it anymore. The sooner Harriet graduated from high school and headed off to university, the better. Now he really needed company.

**Please come. –JW**

He sent a second text before Holmes could reply.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. –JW**

**Will do. –SH**

John finished his boiling lunch and washed his dish off in the sink, leaving soapy bubbles so it could clean off some of the sauce. He heard a snippet of a sound from the episode Harry was watching but closed his bedroom door to block it out in frustration.

To be honest, even he thought so himself, his room was a mess. School books littered the floor, his Gryffindor robes were draped over his desk chair, and an assortment of wizard sweets were on his bedside table. His Hogwarts trunk was in the far corner and various things were falling out of it, including the white stained shirt that still had some of the poison from Moriarty's needle drained in the fabric.

Having some interest, he rummaged through his school supplies and found some things he didn't want to. One thing he did discover pleased him; hidden in the bottom corner, still gleaming after having been through some toil, was his lucky snitch. He caught it to gain an extra 150 points for Gryffindor, helping to lead his Quidditch team to win the victorious cup. He was the youngest player on the team, and being burdened with that grateful opportunity to play the wizard sport was an occasion he'd never forget.

As if it had been awoken by his touch, the tiny golden ball spread its picturesque wings, showing a silvery material while it floated before his face. For some reason the image of it made a frown come to John's face; perhaps it was the flashback of his first Quidditch match where he'd scraped several layers of skin off his arm, or maybe it was the reminder that Sherlock wasn't at the celebration party after the seeker had caught the tournament winner.

Nevertheless, the snitch must have learned not to fly away from him because it acted like a loyal dog attracted to its owner. By contact again, John grabbed the fluttering ball in his palm and the transparent wings folded back into its body. Instead of putting it in a place for safekeeping, he slipped it into his pocket and concluded that he would carry it around with him, knowing perfectly well it would help him in no way.

Lying on top of his desk was his journal, open to the table of contents. One chapter title was written in pencil, bearing a name John felt offended and depressed when being called; yet ironically, he'd used it in his first piece of writing.

_Different._

He scooped up a spare writing utensil and his book, slipping on a pair of his favorite sandals as he heading for the backyard. He didn't inform Harry where he was going; he just filed out the back door as smoothly as a shadow.

There was a large oak tree about fifteen yards from the back porch, growing straight out of the center of the ground. Up in the higher and thicker branches was a wooden tree house, glass windows open a crack so critters could crawl in and out. A ladder climbed up to about the middle of the trunk where a platform was nailed, and from there on up a wider staircase led up to the actual hut.

A white fence surrounded the entire property and a community swimming pool was not far up the street. Lounge chairs and a grill were up on the patio, sitting under the shade of a gigantic umbrella. John crossed the yard and took a seat at the base of the tree, pulling his knees into his chest and settling his book in his lap. He glanced up at the sky and watched the puffy, white clouds drift away dreamily for a while, contemplating how to start his next chapter.

He suddenly heard the snap of a twig and turned to react to the noise, only to find nothing was there. A caterpillar crawled on a nearby leaf and munched happily, filling its stomach with many nutrients.

The blonde reached back into his pocket and pulled out his snitch, letting it unfold its wings and fly before his eyes. The flappers beat at over 100 miles per hour, almost resembling and matching up to the speed of a hummingbird. He never got over how beautiful and intricate the patterns on the outer shell were, gazing at the microscopic nuts and vines weaving around the surface. He also enjoyed the soft sound the wings made as it hovered in the air, simply looking like it was floating and connected on a string.

For the millionth time that day his phone made an alert noise, telling him someone was trying to come in contact with him. He set the book down on the ground next to him and let the snitch continue with its actions. Sherlock had come back with a notice for him.

**Turn around. –SH**

The Ravenclaw stood with his iPhone in his hand, leaning up against the pearl white fence gate and wearing his normal dress pants and a purple buttoned-down shirt. Taking his left hand from behind his spine, he brought it in front of his chest to expose a present wrapped in blue paper with a green bow perfectly stuck to the top.

"Happy twelfth birthday, John."

* * *

***I also do not own these songs I used. The lyrics belong to their rightful owners. They are:**

_-Wake Me Up_ by Avicii

- _Start Of Something Good_ by Daughtry 


	2. The Sound Of Falling Rain

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 2)**

The Sound Of Falling Rain

* * *

The normal expectation level of happiness in John's blue irises and smile weren't the same to match his usual cheerful self. When the present was revealed in front of Sherlock's abdomen area, the blonde merely twitched the corners of his mouth in his lame attempt at a smile and turned away. In fact, he even went as far as to ignore the brunette and make Sherlock frown in failure. Holmes did absolutely nothing wrong, it just seemed like the lack of interest was dawning on the birthday boy.

After a few stabbing moments of dissatisfaction, the older friend balanced the weight on his feet and went to find out what was wrong with the twelve-year-old. He strolled over to the opposite side of the tree where John was curled at the base, clutching the earth-colored gift in his hand. The box was a decent size to fit in his palm comfortably, as he had a reasonable amount of room to wiggle his fingers around if the grip felt painful.

John continued to sulk, knees bent into his chest as he stared at his Snitch. The golden sports ball continued to circle the outer edge of his legs, making the boy go slightly cross-eyed as he watched it zoom around. He didn't even stir when the detective happened to be standing with the tips of his toes brushing Watson's sneakers, staring down almost with his neck completely bent over. Playfully, the younger Holmes sibling tapped Watson's calf with his dress shoe, hoping for some sort of gesture to know that the blonde was paying attention. The birthday boy still didn't move. All he did was blink, fluttering his eyelashes and tensing up his upper back muscles.

"Hey," Sherlock said, in sync as he crouched down to find John's eyes, "why the long face?" His voice was so frail as he pressed a hand to Watson's arm, which was bent and stuck out at an awkward angel. "No need to feel blue on your birthday, is there?"

Personally, John didn't understand how Sherlock was acting so unlike himself. What was more was that he looked like he was trying to impress the blonde. The world seemed suspended when he talked in a quiet manner, like sundown clinging onto the existence of darkness for a final bow; a final spotlight before leaving and coming back some other day.

John cupped the Snitch into his left hand, causing Holmes to flinch as his touch was cut off from the younger boy's arm. His hand sank to the dirt, collecting some dust on his pale skin cells as he searched for another method of advice. John was now staring at a specific point with sad pupils, making him resemble a lost kitten. The sight cracked Sherlock's heart in two, but it was re-stitched as he tried to speak for a second time, forced to guess what was bothering the Gryffindor rather than hearing it from the lion as the truth.

"Is Harry ruining your day?" Sherlock referred to the Gryffindor's older sibling by her shortened name, figuring it was easier to say and since John knew what he was talking about anyway. The lion shook his head, lifting up his chin so Sherlock could get a portrait of his full complexion.

"I just assumed so cause you texted me that she was giving you a hard time." The eagle pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages, almost as if to prove it to John and show him. He wasn't looking through their texts together though, because Mycroft had buzzed to Sherlock with a consequence.

**Sherlock, if you don't come back home now, you're going to be in serious trouble. –MH**

**What are you gonna do, give me a detention? –SH**

**Don't give me attitude. –MH**

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting completely on his backside and bringing the iPhone before his nose. "Piss off, Mycroft," he grumbled, feeling that his brother was acting too much like an adult before he even entered his final year at Hogwarts. He didn't want to deal with his stuck-up teenage sibling.

"So, if it's not Harry, then what else is bothering you?" John obviously didn't want to tell him and turned away, trying to avoid Sherlock's gaze and mind his own business. Holmes slouched back on his bottom, curling his spine under him so he could look sterner. "John, enough," he suddenly spat out, and the younger friend actually made an offended face.

"What?" he grumbled, staring right in Sherlock's green eyes as his own molded to have a dark glare to them. They actually absorbed some shadow and Holmes flashed his pupils in alarm. "I'm not doing anything wrong, so why are you bothering me?"

"Because!" It was a lame excuse of an answer; a typical one-worded retort that most little kids give just to get out of an argument. The Gryffindor rolled his eyes and pressed his cheek to his knee, only one ear exposed to his surroundings so he could hear the taller boy's complaints. The Ravenclaw never lost a fight with Mycroft, but when it came to the stockier boy before him, John knew how to bring the heat. He always made sure to make the battle compact and worth every word. When it came to John Watson, he was one of the few people who could directly order Sherlock to give in or shut up.

"You wanted me to come here, and so I did at my own will, but now you're telling me to bug off?" Sherlock pressed his forearms so hard into his calf bones he could feel them rubbing together as he rocked back and forth. He tilted his curly head and almost glared at the back of the birthday boy's locks of hair, but all he got was a groan as Watson continued to block him out. "Seriously, I don't know what you're playing at. I really don't see the chemistry in bringing me here whatsoever -"

"Fine!" John violently spat, throwing his hands up in frustration and surprisingly not startling the eagle. He suddenly curled up in shame, trapping himself in a cage and feeling punished for boiling over too harshly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, sniffing and taking back his rude remarks from earlier. The immediate change in tone and intensity of John's voice came like a smack to the face and made Sherlock look up in astonishment.

"Oh." The brunette felt stupid and couldn't come up with a more reasonable reply to expose. Of all the words in the human race, he let out the dumbest comment of them all. To back up his low-level status, he wanted to let his friend know that it was nothing to get jittery about. "To be honest, it's -"

"No, it's not," John said, cutting Holmes off before he could finish his assurance. The Ravenclaw went crisply silent and let his lips hang open in an overwhelmed manner. Watson smacked the ground in furry as he was upset with himself. Gathering up a jumble of nonsense, he inhaled sharply and shook as he allowed his words to fall out of his mouth in a sort of monotone. "I'm getting worked up over a stupid suspicion," he stated, switching his position so one knee was bent to the side while he rested his elbow on his vertical leg.

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't involve you."

"That doesn't mean I can't be interested." John gave him a sulking look with his mournful eyes, waving Sherlock off with a flick of his wrist.

Sherlock was no getting sick of playing John's guessing game. He wasn't supposed to be forced into doing this, trying to solve the puzzle and work out what was tormenting the lion's brain. He needed to know what it was because of one simple solution; to fix it. There were thousands of things that could be irritating John, but by digging deeper he could reveal what it was and that would narrow his field for advice significantly.

"Come on, John. Tell me what's wrong."

The blonde-haired boy made a sort of croaking noise and tilted his skull in the direction of  _The Daily Prophet_ lying in the grass by his hip. Sherlock got the mime and collected the newspaper with one swift swoosh of his arm. His eyes contracted when he read the main story's title, clearly disgusted by the minister's choices. He took a few moments of silence to skim over the front page, twisting his eyebrows when he finished and not seeing what was in plain sight in front of him.

"I don't see anything. Just a stupid and messed up editorial on us. Did you not want this to be released to the public or something?"

"No. Why would I have a problem with that?"

"Well, there's nothing else that could be critical written on here." Sherlock flicked his hands and the paper folded in a new deformed figure, but he straightened it out again and waited for a declaration from his shorter friend.

"My blood status." Holmes looked perplexed and checked back in the text for proof. It mentioned John as a Muggleborn, but there seemed to be no mistake in that.

"What about it?" he questioned.

"It's wrong."

"And?"

"Am I supposed to ignore it? Is it some sort of joke? Am I supposed to make something out of that? Cause I definitely did notice it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John lifted his head up from sulking to stare at his best friend. The older boy was making deductions, considering his pupils were small and he looked way too concentrated.

"It's just a typo," Sherlock said after a few seconds when no reply came. "It means absolutely nothing."

"Does it?" John was so determined he was getting somewhere that he was on his feet in a flash; he actually made Holmes jump he was so alert. The blonde paced back and forth, his hands occasionally clenching and relaxing from fists. "Is that supposed to mean nothing? Do they think they could put that in the news and I wouldn't notice?" He pointed down at the crumpled report in the Ravenclaw's hand and stood staring like an owl, waiting to pounce on its prey.

"How is this getting to you?"

"Sherlock," Watson said threateningly, stopping in his tracks and holding his hands out parallel for the eagle to witness. "This is the Ministry of Magic we're talking out. Clearly, they have all the records of wizards in the world, so I obviously have not been told something."

"Alright, honestly, don't drag me into this -"

"Why? You said you'd help me…" This put a shock to Sherlock, but this had nothing to do with him at all.

After a couple moments of silence, the younger Holmes brother spoke up to try and give his neighbor some advice. "How badly do you want to find out?"

"Find out what?"

"The truth." More silence.

"Sherlock, I  _need_ to know what's going on."

"Well, deep down, you know who you need to speak to."

_Wow, John's using observation skills. To be fair, I knew he'd find out eventually. Why didn't I tell him in the first place? I just knew it was going to go downhill if I didn't. After all, he couldn't actually believe that about himself, could he?_

_But why didn't I warn him earlier?_

There was a buzz somewhere to John's left and he crinkled up his forehead in mystification. Sherlock's phone had lit up and displayed a message on the screen. By squinting his pupils, John could see that it was a text from the older Holmes brother.

The brunette gritted his teeth in his closed mouth and picked up the electronic device in displeasure. "Go away, Mycroft," he grumbled, reading the dim text in the small bubble dedicated for quick communications. However, this time Mycroft hadn't come back with another threat. Instead, he'd typed back a response that grabbed the attention of his younger sibling.

**Redbeard needs to be taken on his walk. Do it now. –MH**

John only got a faint mutter of the name Sherlock had mentioned, until the rest of his sentence faded as he read it out loud and sank a little in his shoulders when he'd finished. His head collapsed like a great weight but was hauled up with ease again as he furiously tapped on the keys and sent his opinion back.

**He'll be taken care of later. He can wait. I've got far more important things to deal with at the moment. –SH**

John's feet awkwardly shuffled against the prickly soles of his sandals, his faced paused in a sort of mistaken gesture as he pointed towards Holmes's ribcage. He tried to start a conversation for multiple attempts, but nothing came out until he was able to repeat his prepared question in his head three times. He finally got up the ability to a few syllables just because his curiosity was taking over his mind.

"Who's Redbeard?"

Of all the months they'd spent together, Sherlock had never told anyone about who he cared about almost all the time whenever he wasn't occupied with his best friend. His stupefied expression molded into a teeth-baring smile, and he let out a small chuckle while preparing to tell the Gryffindor. He set his iPhone on the ground and let his present join it before going on with a small rant.

"Redbeard is our family dog. He's an Irish Settler with long, floppy ears and a short tail with ruffles that he loves to wag."

John contracted his stomach muscles as he giggled in delight. The sight of it made Sherlock smile as well; he absolutely loved it when John showed his happiness, as he sometimes did something funny on purpose just to hear him laugh. Whatever was upsetting the birthday boy seemed to have been swept from him and sucked into a vacuum, making him perk up and become his unique self filled with amity.

"How did I never know you had a dog? I've been to your house dozens of times…"

"That's because he's usually in the other section of our mansion that you haven't visited yet."

"Oh!" John mocked, trying to tease the brunette and fire his own bad jokes at him. "You mean the section that I haven't been to because you claimed it's haunted?"

"Uh, yeah," the twelve-year-old replied with guilt, finding it unbelievable that he told the blonde such a lie in the first place. "But that wasn't a complete myth! We do believe there's a ghost roaming our house. It's just that we think it's secluded in the attic. You can find all sorts of magical creatures in the homes of wizards." The blonde snorted, agreeing with the fact based on the knowledge from his first year at Hogwarts.

"I'm just worried that one day we'll have to put him down," Sherlock sulked, ignoring the following vibration after his exclamation. Watson looked up at him with distressed irises.

"Why?" he wondered, sounding like another story might break him if the detective said another word.

"Who knows? I overheard Mum and Dad discussing it but was caught snooping. They wouldn't tell me anything when I asked."

"I mystery to us all I suppose," John concluded. "The world may never know."

"Mycroft hasn't got a clue as to what my parents are planning. I just hope they switch their minds quickly and allow him to stay." He was beginning to fell teary-eyed and wiped them away when John wasn't looking.  _No, I can't cry here,_ he told himself.  _Emotions; such a waste of space that could be used for storing information instead._

"I don't want to see him go," the Ravenclaw continued, making it unnoticeable that sentiment was getting to him. "I-I love him."

John stuck a finger in his ear and tried to clear out the gunk in it, obviously thinking he'd misunderstood.  _Gross,_ he thought, scrunching up his face in a disturbed expression. After the wave of emptiness and bewilderment had passed on and Sherlock seemed to be drowning in a puddle of failure and acting like it was his fault, the blonde broke the tender moment with an honest opinion.

"You know, I think that's the first time I've heard you openly express your feelings towards someone so freely."

"Your presumption is inaccurate, John."

The younger friend gave his buddy a quizzical glance and was lost at the retort that was thrown back at him. "How so?" he asked, waiting for an in-depth response.

"I have fully expressed my affections for a certain someone over the course of the last year and you have been unsuccessful in seeing it. The hints were right there under your nose and you still haven't come to realize their presence."

John was still confused. "What? When?"

"You know what, it doesn't matter." Sherlock was depressed that his best friend wasn't getting the fix on their conversation, seeing as their friendship bond was getting stitched in a tighter pattern every second they spent together. He practically said it directly to his face and the younger boy didn't understand. His perfectly carved hand swooped down to grasp his neatly-wrapped present gleefully, holding it before the shorter kid and urging him to open it with his eyes.

"I thought we were discussing Redbeard…" John pointed out, but when the gift was shoved into his lap he couldn't help but accept it.

"You are what's important right now," Sherlock plainly put it, nodding down upon the box that was now snuggled in John's right paw. "Go on. You know you want to open it."

"You didn't have to get me anything," John inputted, nevertheless untying the symmetrical bow that protected the paper from ripping and served as a piece of decoration.

"You know I would have no matter the situation," Holmes stated. The lion expressed a cheeky grin and tossed the ribbon aside, now tearing back the wrapping paper to reveal a white, square box. One of the corners was bent and the tape securing the lid on tightly had already been sliced for him. Watson slid his fingernail under the tab holding it down and pushed the top up, revealing the contents of what was inside.

It was no surprise to find some sort of padding to keep his present from breaking. Bubble wrap was cleverly folded to hide the gift from view and John popped one before handing the roll over to Sherlock, who took it joyfully and began breaking the clumps of air like an entertained animal.

The simplest deduction the birthday boy could make from the gift was that it was some sort of necklace, judging by the long chain and a sort of charm on the end. At first he thought he'd been given the wrong present but was corrected when he pulled it all the way from the box. Some sort of bronze pendant had been fastened to the end of the string, just a plain shape of a rectangle made out of an element from the periodic table.  _He's always involving science somehow,_ John snickered.

But when John looked closer, a name was scripted on the longer side of the pendant into the bronze in a sharp shade of blue, bearing the name in cursive  _Holmes._ The younger boy let his fingers run over the flat texture of the metal, and when he flipped it over while twirling it he saw there was more on the backside.

A silhouette a little bigger than his thumbnail was carved into the necklace, making the outline of the shape of Sherlock's upper body. Directly under what would have been his shoulders was his first name, written just as swiftly as it was on the opposite side.

John looked up in amazement to see Sherlock smiling down at him. The brunette suddenly reached down behind the buttoned cloth of his shirt, bringing out to show Watson nothing else than a pendant of his own. Only his was gold with a red silhouette.

The silhouette of John Watson.

"Open it," Holmes beckoned, hinting with a twinkle of his eyes as the shorter boy couldn't think of anything to say. John didn't think he could open it, but just below the loop where the string was threaded through he found the tiniest button he'd ever seen. With one light press, the locket flung open to reveal the inside composition.

On both sides of the pendant's flat interior was a glossy mirror. The Gryffindor supposed it was just for charming looks, and so he peered into the left one to find his own stunning blue iris reflected back at him. When he looked into the other mirror however, this time he saw a bright green eye watching him with curiosity.

"What?" he gasped, flinging it away suddenly but luring his gift back in hastily to check that he wasn't hallucinating. Sure enough, the green eye was there and looking at him like it always did. That oh so familiar stare that made him tell anything to the Ravenclaw.

"How does that work?" he remarked, finding it odd that Sherlock could look at him through a mirror. "Is it some sort of transport?"

"No," Holmes laughed. "I bewitched it. If and whenever you need me, just look in the right mirror and I will hopefully be there. The pendant will give you a signal if one of us is calling the other. Don't worry; nothing serious or distracting. That way, we can communicate with each other whenever it becomes necessary."

John stared at him in pure astonishment, clearly impressed with the eagle's over-the-top qualities added to a simple piece of jewelry. "Clever boy you are," he commented, grinning in excitement. "Mr. Clever, that's who you are."

Before the older friend could ask for any feedback on how the birthday boy liked it or not, he was balled over in a massive hug and had the daylights squished out of him for minutes on end.

He took that indication as a yes.

* * *

It had been two days since John had turned twelve and he'd discussed his doubt about his blood status with Sherlock. The Ravenclaw didn't think it was that big of a deal, but the change from a half-blood to a Muggleborn had quite an effect on the blonde-haired wizard.

He was sitting alone in his bedroom while bending over his journal, stuck at how to play and write out words that would be a treat for a reader when first discovering his and Sherlock's first meeting. He was getting nowhere, especially with his owl Athiel hooting loudly in her cage and the alarm clock ticking on his bedside table. The fury was burning up inside him and his mind was not focused on becoming an author; definitely not when  _The Daily Prophet_ headline about his encounter with the dementors was sitting directly beside him, taunting him to just do what he desperately needed to.

To search for the truth. More so even, if he had to, to dig for the truth.

He'd had enough. The moving pictures on the front page article were all too familiar from him staring at it for hours on end, reading the same bit of sentence over and over. Now, he was just fed up with people and him not knowing the truth about his own life. Maybe this wasn't a major problem for some other wizards, but he certainly wasn't going to be fooled and messed around with by such things as this. His pencil fell out of his grip and landed with a few clinks on his desk, drawing stray marks on the pages of his book by accident as it wriggled from his touch. John nearly bumped his knee on the underside of the furniture while snatching up the week old copy of  _The Daily Prophet._

The clutter of car keys on the counter signaled that his mum had returned from work. She was the only one who knew the truth; the only one who could sort it all out and owe him the right facts. Taking a deep breath and putting on his best angry face with ease, considering that he couldn't believe he was being lied to, John pulled open his bedroom door and headed straight for the kitchen.

Eventually his feet began to stomp on the polished floor he couldn't contain himself, and when he turned the corner to find his mum's back to him, she spun around in her normal jolly fashion and prepared to greet him. But when she saw the look on her son's face, her heartwarming smile was instantly removed from her cheeks.

"John," she said, cowering back in fear and waiting for an explanation from the short-heighted boy who was approaching her with almost complete hatred. The sun was setting over her left shoulder through the glass window, bringing an orange glow into the room as navy blue clouds prepared to take over the night sky. The sliding door that led to the porch was open and the second screen door let a soft breeze flow into their house. John got a glimpse of their dog Gladstone briefly out of the corner of his eye running about in the yard before he reached the waist-high bar that connected different countertops in the Watson's kitchen.

The front page article was thrown onto the surface so hard it made a cracking noise through the air like a gunshot. John's mum flinched and hovered over him in shock, her eyes passing from his enraged face to the words floating on the wizard newspaper. She gave no hesitation in knowing what it was or showed any sign of confusion as the images were moving.

"John," she tried again, but his spoken name only acted as a trigger to his next move. From a spare cup next to the toaster John pulled out a bright pink highlighter, making sure it was a vibrant color so it would get his female parent's attention at first sight.

He pivoted the folded paper around so it faced him, and found the words he wanted to show her in the blink of an eye. No scanning of the page was required after skimming it so many times, and when he had finished coloring over the six words he'd proved to be correct and the vocal explanation was false, he properly secured and closed the cap on the marker and dropped it onto the marble surface.

His mother bent over to read the words he'd made stick out gingerly, afraid that he might possibly attack her if she made one wrong move. Aware of her mistake as she'd finished, her mouth fell open and she straightened her back to stare down in disbelief at her son.

_Watson, as he is a Muggleborn._

He may have needed six words to show why it lit a fire under his temper, but he only needed one word to fish out the real truth from his mother. And so he spoke the first word he'd said to her since she'd arrived home that day.

"Explain."

* * *

They were now seated together at the dining room table. John just knew as well that Harriet was secretly spying on them in the living room. The only son made sure to sit as far away from his mum as possible, showing his displeasure with her and waiting for his parent to spit out the truth. He was slouching in the chair reserved for his father; the Watson family always kept it empty in hope that he would return one day from war to be able to eat with them all again. John launched himself out of his seat and began to walk around, trying to clear his mind. His mother's eyes watched him with every step.

Thunder rumbled outside and John noticed the clouds from before were raging up a storm. Rain started to lash against the side of the house, beating on the wood porch and causing a small river to flow through the pipes lining the roof outside.

John stopped pacing by the door and crossed his arms. "Care to elaborate?" he projected with sass, nodding his head at the informational text lying in front of his mum.

Mrs. Watson let out a long sigh before concluding that she had to tell her son the obvious. "John," she started, and her son wanted to hear more than just his name since she got home from work. "I was given those objects from my father before he died. And just from gaining those wizard items, I wanted to learn as much knowledge as I could about the wizarding world."

"And you had to lie to me about it?" John asked.

"Sweetie, I'm sorry. There was nothing else I could do, and I didn't want to upset you -"

"You could have just told me from the start. Then I wouldn't have had to go through all this pain. Didn't you ever consider that, Mum?"

"I didn't think it would affect you that much," his mother interjected. "And over the years, I had to weave it around me and your father's relationship, but -"

"Oh, so Dad was in on this too?"

"John…" Mrs. Watson now really sounded hurt.

"So everyone knew about this but me?" John was on the verge of bursting out in rage. He suddenly fell silent and choked out with his next input. "So, there's nothing wizard related with you or Dad?"

Her lips trembled and hung open for a split second before she carried on. "No. Actually, if you really want to know who I am…"

"What?" her son demanded. "Tell me, Mum."

Her body shook all over before she concluded their conversation. "I-I'm a Squib."

John's face simultaneously changed to a crushed expression as hot tear droplets sprung to his eyes. He let one slide down his face and over his cheek before he whipped around and groped to open the porch door.

"John!"

Too late. He'd thrown the door open and hurled himself out into the rain. Gladstone was nowhere in sight, presumably hidden in his doghouse as he bolted across the lawn. When he reached the fence surrounding their property, he could hear his mother shouting for him to come back, but there was no way he would swing back around after what he'd just heard. The gate crashed shut behind him as he ran away, finding himself drenched in the downpour in less than thirty seconds. He didn't want to go back home that night; he'd sit out in the field all night if he had to.

It didn't take long for him to reach the lone oak tree planted in the meadow between the two neighborhoods in his town. Not even the moon was shining through the small gap in the clouds above. He sluggishly came to a halt, bracing an arm against the tree to steady his shaking nerves. Finally, he collapsed and let the weight of his body fall to the dirt at the base of the trunk.

All he did was sit and cry. He needed to get his feelings out about his entire family business. He bent his knees into his forehead and bawled like a child. He let the rain curl into all the cracks and gaps in his clothes, not caring how wet he was by the end of the night.

Over to his right he spotted a yellow light flickering on in an upstairs room. To whom it belonged to, it didn't matter. He smelled fresh water seeping into earth and slipping over the bumps in the tree bark. The grass tickled his bare feet and crickets chirped around to fill a tune in his ears.

His hair was now soaked and because he kept shuffling his hands through his blonde locks it stuck up all over. He felt awkward without his black jacket protecting him, but nothing mattered to him now. Taking it in all at once was too much.

John was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching his crouched figure. He supposed it was his mother; she worried about everything. But he was mistaken when a skinny hand pressed to his shoulder with such known comfort. Even stronger than the usual comfort of a family member.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice was heard through the loud claps of thunder and flashes of lightning. The sound was blurred but John could still hear it even with buckets of water drowning the insides of his ears.

"John!" Sherlock shouted again, clearer this time and it came from a closer location. "John! What happened?"

The younger boy looked up with stinging eyes. Another flash of lightning lit up his face and the Ravenclaw was able to see how upset his friend was. Then, after a defining sniffle, John yelled out what he needed to, regardless if it made sense or not to the younger Holmes brother.

"I was right! My whole life, it's just one big lie! One enormous lie wrapped up in a truth just to make it stronger!"


	3. Sibling Rivalries

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 3)**

Sibling Rivalries

* * *

"Why?"

John had spoken up first. His fright had done nothing but cause his trembling body to break down, his emotions spilling out as he shivered against the cold water. The downpour kept coming, smacking the Gryffindor in the eyes and causing a reaction of him crying out from the sharp stinging.

"John..."

_How many times have I heard my own name today? No matter if it's been said from the lips of my best friend, I still can't stand to hear it anymore._

"Why does everything always happen to me? Or it's my fault?" He was shouting over the loud booms as Holmes stood with his coat turned up to fight with the wind. For one, the brunette didn't comprehend how to respond, but on the other hand he knew it was polite to help John with his problem.

"Come here."

Watson stated up at him with pink eyes and narrowed them from the blinding water droplets pounding on the front of his cheeks. His blue irises were painted with sorrow, and Sherlock thought he was looking down on a homeless boy if it hadn't been for the sweet complexion the lion had about him. The broad shoulders, muscular arms, chubby face, flat stomach, even the sweeping motion of his hair all belonged to him. There would be no mistake in picking out John Watson from a crowd of strangers.

The smaller boy was taken-aback by the Ravenclaw's demand and let the rain fall off his nose while his mouth was relaxed and open. The skeletal hand of the older friend flew out from under his jacket, palm up and exposed to allow his buddy to take it.

When Watson either refused or couldn't find the right reproach for the gesture, the younger Holmes brother fired back another sentence, repeating his first command to make himself clear.

"John, I said come here."

Sherlock was no one to mess with when he was annoyed. Lifting his heavy arm like a great weight, the shorter boy grabbed the brunette's semi-dry hand and hoisted himself from the ground, leaving a dent in the mulch covering the base of the tree.

John's navy blue shirt was splotched with patches of water, the pockets by his chest secured closed by white buttons, and his tan hiking shorts no longer held their original color. They looked mucky brown, and his shoeless feet were freezing while pressed against the grass. His sandy locks made him look like he'd received an electric shock, puffed up in the back and flaring rather than smoothed down in their usual stance.

Once they stood face to face, John collar bone sagged and coughed from the gunk building up in his throat. Then all of the sudden he found Sherlock's raincoat draped over his shoulders, blocking the water from entering his clothing and drowning him any more.

Underneath Sherlock's coat he's been using as an umbrella, he was dressed in a spare pair of sweatpants that made him look ridiculous. A second hoodie was covering his upper body, now only sprinkled with little speckles of the downpour taking advantage of the two boys.

The silence was broken by Holmes tugging Watson into a hug, pulling him in as close as possible and muttering soft tidings to his friend that only he could hear, slowly resembling a lullaby as he found his lines rhyming by no coincidence.

"Shh..." he whispered, rocking the shorter boy back and forth and leaning over so the blonde didn't have to reach up so high to hold onto his back. "It's okay. You just need a moment to take it all in. Not everything goes the way we plan for them to. You're just shook up over it." He now spoke directly into John's ear, doing anything to calm the twelve-year-old down and get his loving personality returned to normal.

"Do you think I'll be able to forgive her though?" John asked. "My mum?"

"Of course you will. There are much worse lies that can be told, and even then the victim always forgives their enemies in the end." They broke away up top so their faces were about a foot apart. "And you know what? You're John Hamish Watson. You can't stay angry at anyone for long."

He bopped the Gryffindor on the nose and John perked up a little, letting the irresistible urge to smile fly free like a dove. "I can't go back home tonight though," he said in a suffering tone. "I'll have to deal with a long talk and I don't want to witness that right now."

Sherlock laughed, using his hand to jerk John's head forward and ruffle his messy hair. If he desperately wanted a good laugh he could brush his fingers around and mold the lion's mane into a Mohawk, but seeing as the younger boy was practically on the edge already he wasn't going to risk it.

"That's no obstacle," he replied, and John raised an eyebrow at his complex arrangement of words. "You can sleep at my house tonight. I'm sure Mum won't mind, and Father works late at the Ministry, so you'll be welcome. If Mycroft doesn't approve, too bad."

John flattened his lips in a pleased manner. "Thank you," he told the brunette, squeezing the sharp nook of Holmes's shoulder. "And thanks for the coat," he added, inputting his joy in the extra layer of clothing.

"No problem. Come on," Sherlock beckoned, wrestling him in around his neck area, "let's get moving before you freeze to death."

John agreed without hesitation and was accelerated ahead by the taller kid, heading in the direction of the largely populated clump of houses to their right. The flicker of a lamp he'd seen earlier was indeed from Sherlock's bedroom, and now he could see a smidge of his experiment table through the window and the backboard of the Ravenclaw's mattress. Occasionally, the older boy's elbow would brush against the sleeve of his borrowed jacket, causing him to stir or flinch at an unexpected jolt of contact.

Passing between two houses, the thunderstorm began to build up and suddenly the sky pelted large droplets of water at them, like it was purposefully attempting to knock them over. Once they were safely under the roof of the Holmes' front deck, Sherlock told him to leave the jacket outside on one of the rocking chairs his mum enjoyed lounging in on summer mornings.

Sherlock pressed down on the latch to the front door and pushed inwards, revealing the open area of the living room to their left and one of the staircases to the second floor straight ahead. Far off beyond the couches in the family area was the kitchen with a short bar built next to the sink. Mrs. Holmes was cleaning up the last bit of dishes and cutting up a few tomatoes, but when she spotted her son lugging on his best friend through the entrance to their home she immediately paused and rushed over.

"Sherlock," she interjected, bringing her stern voice on, "Where have you been? What on earth were you doing outside in such a storm? You could have got seriously injured -"

"Mum!" he said, raising his voice so she stopped in a startled position, "John's had a row with his family."

 _Thanks for the news, Sherlock,_ Watson grumbled, standing behind the eagle like a person who didn't belong in that proper atmosphere. Mrs. Holmes let her mouth fall open in worry before her son went on with his description.

"Can he stay here tonight?" he pleaded, giving her his best puppy dog eyes. Sherlock's mum switched her attention to the boy hidden in the corner, suddenly becoming fidgety and giving John the look like he was her actual son who just been beaten up on the street by a passerby.

The brunette's parent adjusted the appearance of her flowered pink blouse, pulling down the sleeves so the skin on her arms no long showed. "Of course you can stay here, John," she welcomed, offering him a spot to be a part of their family. "Whenever you have trouble at home, you're more than welcome to come here."

"Thank you, Mrs. Holmes," the blonde great fully replied, stepping up closer so he became level with Sherlock. He went to stride forward but stopped abruptly when he realized his mistake. "I would hug you, but I'm all wet," he stated. The Ravenclaw's mother touched her hand to her heart, showing how sweet she thought the boy was being.

"Sherlock," she began to input her opinion, but her son was already on top of things and ahead of her.

"Don't worry, Mum. I'll take care of him." His gaze flew to the clock in the living room. "You should head off to bed. You look tired."

"Alright, dear. If you need anything, just let me know."

"Don't call me that," Holmes muttered as she walked away swiftly, her hips gently swinging from side to side. Then turning to John he added, "Come on," for urgency.

Watson found an arm shaking around his shoulder, pulling him in close for support. And one step at a time, they began to ascend the staircase together up to the second floor. Once they reached the top and turned the corner, John was able to pick out among the rows of doors which belonged to Sherlock's bedroom chamber.

The Ravenclaw gently pushed his bedroom door open with the pads of his fingers, letting his friend scoot into the area before he did so himself. John automatically shuffled to the side of the space, allowing a pathway for Sherlock to meander around and get everything situated. He rummaged around in a couple dresser drawers before extending his knees and turning to face the Gryffindor.

"Here," he said, his tone soothing but his hand motion a little too rough as a fresh pair of pajamas was tossed into John's arms. They consisted of a dark blue pair of cotton pants with a plaid pattern and a white tank top. The brunette was about to sneak put of the room before catching his own mistake and giving the lion an explanation. "I'll be right back," he simply put it. John asked no further questions and went to slip on the comfortable clothes he was offered to borrow.

He kept shivering as his teeth chattered, and even the new outfit didn't seem to keep him warm. Knowing Sherlock would have wanted him to, Watson crawled under the duvet on the eagle's mattress and leaned up against the backboard, closing his eyes tiredly. He rolled the thoughts of the day over in his head, wondering what would've happened if he hadn't mentioned the news at all.

_What if I didn't tell Mum? What if I'd just left the matter to Sherlock instead? He seemed to have taken notice too._

The peaceful quiet and arguing of his brain was interrupted a few moments later by Sherlock knocking delicately on the door. John cranked his head down and twisted it to the right, watching the entrance open with his pupils. Holmes's curly head appeared around the edge, checking to make sure his buddy was fully-dressed and had nestled into his bed.

When his full figure was in sight, John noticed he held a steaming mug of tea in his hands, one grasping the handle and the other curled around the border of the open top. The cup was black and white striped, reminding the shorter boy almost of one of his favorite jumpers.

"Um, for you," Sherlock stated awkwardly, setting the drink on the bedside table next to the blonde. "Might be a little warm; I'd let it cool off if I were you."

He was acting so strange at doing his best to be polite that John found it cute. Sherlock scuttled around the bed and snatched up his own pajamas, which were falling off the covers flimsily. "Just give me a few minutes," he told his friend, slipping into his bathroom and shutting the door for privacy.

John nervously pulled the thick covers up to his chin, trying to find anything that would keep him toasty so he wouldn't freeze. His feet curled under himself, still wrapped in the wet socks he'd had on his feet for several hours. Feeling stupid, he roughly pulled them off and threw them across the room, landing on top of the pile of clothes that belonged to him.

There was a  _click_ as Sherlock came back into the room, neatly groomed and dressed in his lounging pajamas. Revealing his shoulders from under the blankets, John rubbed his bare upper arms and leaned forward to ask his lingering question.

"Do you have a spare shirt I could throw on?" He tried not to shake in front of the Ravenclaw.

"Oh for god's sake, John," the taller boy commented, "We're not in public. It's not like anyone's going to see you," he mentioned, remotely interested in his friend's strong muscles. Watson however, seemed to be hiding them. "It's not like you're fat or anything," Sherlock acknowledged, attempting to cheer the younger kid up.

"No!" John almost screamed, then grimaced at his rude behavior. He cowered beneath himself and lowered his voice to plead. "It's not that at all. I'm not embarrassed by that," he pointed out, "I'm just freezing that's all."

"Oh." Holmes felt ridiculous and bent his skull over to hide his blushing cheeks, turning childishly on the spot and fishing around for a long-sleeved shirt. "Actually," he spoke, more so to himself than anyone else, "I think I've got a top that matches the pants you're wearing." He chucked a few socks and a sweater across the ground before holding up a button-up shirt in triumph.

"Here you go," the older kid exclaimed, letting the piece of clothing escape from his fingers and John snatched it in the air.

"Thanks," Watson joyfully said, trying to wiggle the cover over his head. It got stuck on his neck so he pulled it off, having to suffer and undo all the buttons clasped to the front. He threaded his arms through the sleeves, feeling the smooth fabric against his skin as it gave him an extra layer. Satisfied, he sank off his bent knees and tucked them back under the covers.

Sherlock searched around for a few things before cuddling into bed with his friend, his large mattress able to provide enough space plus extra; there was at least a foot between them as they sat together. John leaned over to pick up his drink and brought it to his mouth. He blew and steam flung off the circumference of the mug, sending a warm wave of air over his fingers.

Suddenly he cringed a little when the liquid passed through his almost closed lips, not because of the temperature but because of the taste. He tried to hide it as he identified the sweet ingredient that had been added to the boiling mixture.

"Oh," Holmes noticed, squeezing his eyes shut in stupidity as the Gryffindor turned slightly to catch his eyes. "Sorry, I forgot. You don't take sugar."

"Don't worry, it's okay." Sherlock certainly didn't think so. "It's not acting like poison; it won't kill me or something. I'll survive." And to hide the fact that it was a little too sweet for him to handle, John slowly swallowed the tea over the course of the night. When there was a quarter of the drink left, he felt he'd had enough and set the glass back on the table to his right.

The blonde curled up and slouched against the pillow, trying to gather up enough heat so he felt welcome and like he was at home.

_Home. What was going on at home?_

Sherlock gave him a small smile that he just barely caught out of the corner of his vision. "You warm now?" he asked, checking to make sure.

"Yep," the tiny boy replied, playing with his feet under the covers in appreciation. He was acting like he was Sherlock's sibling, and secretly the brunette wishes that sometimes. He would do anything to have John as his brother rather than Mycroft, mainly because they got along so well and barely started an argument.

Watson looked extremely comfortable as he sank into the cushiony surface and tilted his head away from the Ravenclaw. His blonde locks were still messy and sticking up everywhere, the tiny hairs brushed off his handsome face. He heaved a monstrous sigh, letting all his troubles go and vanish from his mind in a split second. Sherlock remained silent for a few intended moments before making sure his best friend was feeling normal.

"You okay?" He asked with caution, afraid he might break the lion if he went too far in one move.

"I guess," the younger boy decided, still ignoring the gaze the questioner was giving him. His blue eyes looked mint colored from the dim light the lamp gave off. He licked his lips for no reason. That was one of the peeves that bothered Sherlock about John; he tended to lick his lips in public randomly, and at times it became irrelevant, distracting, or possibly inappropriate. He never said anything to the shorter kid though.

"So, is everything all sorted out now? You know, between you and your mum?" He sounded so afraid at asking such a thing.

John groaned. "Maybe." He wasn't at all thrilled to discuss the topic. His face looked so calm lying against the padded structure of the pillow.

Sherlock tried to explain how he knew all along but couldn't bring himself to do it. "I-I should have told you before; I just didn't know how you would react, even after we'd just started our first year at -"

"Oh, so you knew too?" His temper was rising now as he sat up and twisted to face Holmes.

"Um, actually it wasn't that hard to work out." Sherlock felt guilty as John sank heavily back onto the spare pillow the brunette lent him, skull crashing into the back of the Ravenclaw's bed. "I'm sorry," Sherlock projected with as much apology in his tone as he could muster. "I didn't know you'd be so affected -"

"No, it's not your fault." The taller boy turned his head in such a slow motion he felt like his brain was spinning in a compact maze. He just flat out didn't understand what route Watson was taking. John pulled his knees into his chest and tried to flatten his drenched, blonde hair. He ran his hand over the front of his face like someone who is in frustration, but it only made his front sandy colored locks to stick up like a tidal wave.

"You know what's really going on?" he asked, staring blankly at the pile of Hogwarts robes on the back of Holmes's desk chair, "I'm overreacting."

"Seriously?"

"I'm not joking. Honestly, I'm taking this all in at once, I can't handle it, but I'm acting like my life depends on it." Sherlock opened and closed his lips a few times but no sounds came out.

John swallowed and croaked as he tasted some of the hot tea still stuck between the ridges of his teeth. He sniffed before blaming himself harshly. "I'm being an idiot."

"No you're…Now stop it you!" Sherlock ordered, shifting his sitting position on the bed and shuffling over the fresh sheets to land right in front of the lion. "John, listen to me," he demanded, forcing the younger boy to stare right at him. "All of this stuff that's happening to you, the dementors, Moriarty, your family history, it's messing with your brain. All this nonsense is causing you to believe you're a bad person. Well guess what? You're the complete opposite of that." He said it with such a stern posture. The Gryffindor lifted his chin a tad higher.

"Those voices in your head, they're just hallucinations. You know deep down," he paused to place a hand on the little boy's heart, "that I will never be severely injured like that. Because you keep me close right here." John was right on the verge of tears and had to grab Sherlock's hand that was connected to his pumping organ.

"And Moriarty? You know you could defeat him any day. You could take him out with one swift punch if I'd let you." John made his oncoming cough an expressed giggle instead.

"As for your family, you just need to accept who you are now that you're aware of the truth. You still love them and care for them with everything you own." A salty drop of water fell from John's breaking blue iris, slipping down his cheeks and landing on the fabric of the shirt that rested on his stocky shoulders. The only sign of sadness Sherlock showed was in his florescent and interchanging pupils, turning miniature in the crepuscular light.

"And if anything goes wrong with family relationships, you know you've got me, right?"

"You are my family, Sherlock," John put out there, letting his head dive forward and fall into the brunette's collar bone while patting around the boy's waist to pull it into a hug.

Holmes felt like he'd been given a bar of soap to rinse out his mouth; terrified. What did that feel like? Having a best friend who…

_Loves me? John just called me his brother._

"Oh, John…" The only reasonable thing to do was bring him into his body and comfort the blonde. "What would I do without you?" he questioned, thinking he would be miserable and lonely without his trusty lion around.

He loved the coordination of stroking John's fluffy head. He always kept his hair clean and tidy, but it was soft at the touch like the jumpers he always wore.

"Alright little Hamish?" he asked, pulling away and revealing the sulking kid underneath who was curled up like a bug.

"What did you call me?" He gave Holmes a very puzzled look, eyebrow included.

"Oh my god. I'm oblivious. I just called you by your middle name." The older boy couldn't help but grin foolishly.

"Shut up."

They broke apart and scooted away nervously, finding they'd invaded each other's personal bubbles. Sherlock looked considerably taller while sitting on his heels, dressed in his grey t-shirt that was far too big for him and his blue sweatpants. They sat facing each other on top of the white duvet, hands on one another's shoulders and foreheads pressed together.

John exhaled sharply, closing his ocean eyes and letting the relaxing sensation sink in. Sherlock squeezed the dent in the Gryffindor's collar bone, massaging the knotted muscles so the blonde could let everything out. When John re-opened his eyes, Sherlock was the first to speak and check on the human being he dedicated almost all of his attention to.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

John noticed Holmes cheated and pointed it out straight to his face. "You got that from a book, didn't you?"

"Course I did. What don't I get from a book?"

"Yourself."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, because you're unique and nobody can match up to the best man I know."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "That was a rhetorical question, but thanks anyway." He hopped off the bed enthusiastically and stopped in the archway of the bathroom. "You okay? You don't need anything else?"

John was struggling to get back under the sheets. When he was fully turned around, he answered the Ravenclaw. "No. I'm fine."

Sherlock smiled. "Just making sure." He spun on his heel and sort of galloped into the toilet room, grabbing the towel from the rack to the side of the door and flicking the level up on the sink. He stuck his finger under the tap to make sure the water temperature was just right, adjusting the knob when needed.

He used the scented face soap to wash around his cheekbones, covering his chin in the white substance. Twice he got soap in his eye but washed it out thoroughly with water and the towel.

When he'd finished, he hung the washcloth back on the hook and returned to his room, shutting off the light and catching sight of his best friend, now curled up on the far side of the bed with his eyes closed. The older boy could tell he wasn't asleep just by the intensity of his breathing, but he looked extremely adorable all snuggled up in the brunette's bed. As soon as Sherlock adjusted his position under the comforter, John cracked his eyes open a bit to watch the eagle's movements.

"Comfy?" the taller kid asked.

"I am now."

"Good." He nestled into the mattress while the smaller boy scooted a few inches closer. He found his left hand brushing over the smooth skin of John's cheek.

"Sleep, John. You've had a rough day. You need it." A weak smile crossed the bottom of his face before he shut his eyes from his long day.

It didn't take much effort before he was fast asleep, off in a world of dreams and quiet all around while Sherlock watched over him.

* * *

It was partly cloudy when Sherlock arose the next morning, mood groggy and activation level at about ten percent functional. John had his head buried into the bottom corner of the pillow, a frown on his face and his hand resting right where his ear would have been, if it hadn't been hidden by his cushion.

Without disturbing the little lion, he snuck out of bed and took the mug John had drunk from the previous night. There was still about a quarter of the liquid left, and by now Sherlock was surprised it hadn't left a reeking smell in his bedroom overnight. Quickly and quietly, he headed out into the hallway to prepare some breakfast for the beginning meal.

He wasn't sure why, but he tiptoed down the stairs and made sure to rinse out the cup before checking the fridge for available food to eat. He found some French toast and decided to test his cooking skills, getting out the butter and maple syrup. No one came to bother him while he made breakfast, and he even poured a glass of orange juice for his friend upstairs.

Careful to not spill everything off the tray, he ascended the steps one at a time until he reached the end of the hall, pushing open the door of his room with the upper half of his foot.

John was sitting up in bed, rubbing his pink eyes and yawning so strenuously. Turning sideways, Sherlock winced as he strolled through the entrance, presenting his visitor's meal with a proud sense about him.

"Oh! Morning," Watson heavily greeted, rubbing the back of his neck to get rid of the tightness.

"How are you feeling?"

"Hungry," he admitted, spotting the toast and drink that he assumed was for him.

"Here you go," the brunette said, setting the mini table in front of the blonde, making dents in the sheets around the boy's hips.

"Excellent," the eater said, and Sherlock took it as a compliment.

"So, are you ready to face your mum today?" Holmes made it seem like it was a big deal.

John swallowed and removed the fork from his mouth. "I suppose."

The Ravenclaw shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, biting on his lower lip. "Well, eat up. I'll walk you home a little later."

* * *

'A little later' classified as about two hours. John wouldn't fess up until he knew his mum would be out shopping, and he used the other excuse that his clothes from the night before were still wet. Sherlock immediately paused what he was doing and took the Gryffindor's clothes to be dried off. He set his wand down he was polishing onto the unmade bed and dashed out of the room, John attempting to call after the brunette but failing miserably.

"How much longer?" John asked, searching through a stack of chocolate frog cards for no particular reason. Sherlock raised his eyes from his stick he was tending to and peered at the clock across the room. Both boys seemed very antisocial, deciding to stay locked up inside the Ravenclaw's room for most of the day.

Holmes knew what Watson was referring to. "About fifteen minutes." His friend on the floor caught his eye and his posture turned to irritated. "You're not messing those up, are you?"

"Why?" the blonde asked cautiously, aware that he was undoubtedly doing something wrong while looking caught.

"I had them in alphabetical order," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh."  _Fifteen minutes isn't a lot of time. Better get started then._ "I'll put them back in order," John said aloud, holding the bottom half of the stack that he never touched, which was an advantage as they were still sorted correctly. There were easily eighty of them, and Sherlock was determined he was going to have them all by his seventh year at Hogwarts.

"No, don't bother."

"Yes I will."

"No -"

"Sherlock -"

"I'm serious. It's not such a big deal." It didn't matter. He spotted the lion reorganizing them out of the corner of his eye.

It wasn't until his wand was fully cleaned that Holmes spoke up again. "By my calculations, we have an average of seven seconds left. Excuse me." And he was out the door without another peep.

John only managed to get sixty-five of the cards done when the older boy came back with his clothes. He vanished into the bathroom and swapped them out for the junky outfit Sherlock had lent him, and the fabric felt warm from the machine's cleaning process while they smelled of fresh detergent.

As soon as he extracted one toe from the changing room, Sherlock offered to walk him home. John accepted, figuring he may as well go sooner rather than later.

They took the long way round, striding down the wide road side by side while observing the variously sized houses in Sherlock's neighborhood. There were pretty sunflowers near the entrance, and they both stopped to smell them before rounding the corner and finding the Gryffindor's neighborhood just up ahead.

John scraped a few pebbles under the sole of his foot at the base of his driveway, giving Sherlock an almost toddler complaint expression. "Do I have to?" he questioned, pleading to the taller kid with his blue irises.

Holmes sighed with great discomfort. "Why are you so scared to face your mother?" He spun John around to face him near the shoulder area. "Just…be yourself. That's the best route to take." He put his hand around the back of Watson's neck. "Okay?" he asked.

"Okay."

"That's my boy."

John smiled sweetly before trotting off, pausing halfway up the pathway to look back for one last gesture. Taking a deep breath, he took the golden doorknob in his palm and turned, pushing the door open to be greeted with the familiar enlightenment of home.

He was alarmed when he walked lazily into down the hall and took the sharp corner to find his mother sitting in the dining room. Harriet must have been upstairs in her bedroom because she was nowhere in sight.

As soon as she heard his footsteps had stopped, Mrs. Watson spotted him over the vase of flowers she'd put on the table that morning. The time on the microwave read 2:17 P.M.

She dropped her magazine as soon as she saw her son, losing her page as her chair squeaked against the floor when she stood up. Her mouth was slightly open as she approached the blonde-haired kid with prudence. "John…" she whispered, her fingertips still glued to the gleaming surface. Her son remained in the entrance to the hallway that disappeared a few feet behind him, encompassing to the left to the main entryway to their house.

"Oh John…" She was now a few meters from reaching him. "I -"

"Me first," he said, cutting her off and holding up a single finger. She stopped and opened her ears to listen. John swallowed the lump in his throat before continuing.

"Mum…" He shook his head to get rid of the buzzing in his skull. He almost let out a little snort while trying to hide a confused smile. "I-I've been thinking since last night about what I want to say to you. I've chosen these words with care."

"Right," she said, her tone rising towards the end and making it sound more like a question.

John removed his gaze from the tiled floor to stare up into his mother's pupils. "You know I can never stay mad at you forever. That's just not who I am. I've been through difficult times, dealt with difficult people, but somehow I managed to pull through every time."

Mrs. Watson stayed silent while her child paused in the middle of his speech. The twelve-year-old's eyes drifted to the picture frame on top of the fireplace in the open family room, bearing two images of his parents. His father wore his military uniform, and his mother's was her portrait for work. Over his real mum's shoulder, he spotted a bluebird lurking in a nest through the sunroom window.

The wizard coughed. "To tell you the truth, I overreacted." The Squib that was his parent thought she'd heard wrong and misunderstood him, but she only lowered her eyebrows a centimeter. "I know," John admitted, spying the look on her face, "I know it sounds absurd. But honestly, it's true. I shouldn't have chewed it out on you like that." He straightened his spine so he didn't look so short next to her.

He cocked his head while speaking his next sentence right to her. "I just wish you never lied to me."

She had to but in. She couldn't stand not saying a word any longer. "John, I'm so sorry." Her eyes were swelling and tears were forming in the pink composure of them.

"But yes of course, I forgive you, Mum."

His forgiveness made her break down, but the child made the first move for the hug. He held out his arms for his mother to bring him in, and he found his head in her chest, accepting the warmth of her body. She was crying into her son's shoulder as he tilted his head to the side, part of his blonde locks being flattened against her ribs.

He pushed off her hips so she could let go a little, and he had to crane his neck back to look up at her. "Just promise me one thing?" he asked.

"What?" He was amazed at how clearly she was able to talk with a stuffy nose.

"That I can still be a wizard, no matter who I am."

She stopped her sniffling in a split second and gave him the sweetest smile she could muster. "Always." John's cheeks became chubby as he showed his teeth and giggled lightly. "You'll always be my little wizard." Their conversation ended with her planting a kiss on the top of his head.

"Thanks Mum."

He let go of Mrs. Watson so she could clean up in her bathroom, and John was honestly thrilled he'd apologized. He felt light a giant weight was lifted off his body and he wasn't under so much pressure anymore.

His moment just became awkward when there was a buzz in his pocket from his mobile phone.

**And that's the John Watson I know. –SH**

"What?" John looked around, aware that Sherlock must've been listening into their conversation; there was no other way he would've known that their relationship was settled once more.

**Alright sneaky, where are you hiding? How can you possibly know? –JW**

**Shot in the dark. Good one though. Look to your left. –SH**

John swerved around to check through the open sunroom, and sure enough, Sherlock was peeking over the ledge and must have been checking in on their conversation now and then. John jogged over and opened the glass down, leaning on the wooden support rod to have a tiny chat before Holmes said goodbye.

"Everything alright now?"

"Yeah. It's amazing what you can accomplish with a few words," the blonde replied with calmness.

"Yeah…Well, I'll see you later, John." Holmes waved in a funky manner and turned to leave, being polite and closing the white gate behind him as he started to cross the field alone.

"Bye," John followed with his farewell, way after the Ravenclaw was out of earshot. He closed the door and shut out the lovely breeze that brushed delicately over his neck, turning away and heading through the archway that opened into the rest of the Watsons' house.

His joy was dented when he saw his sister Harriet almost charging into the room, her long hair pulled back in a loose braid and her shorts almost down to her kneecaps. Her brother rolled his eyes and passed by, heading right for the cupboard to grab a tasty snack.

While he was cutting up some fruit from the fridge instead, Harry spoke to him in a drawling voice, almost intentionally teasing him. "If I were you, I wouldn't have bothered with it in the first place."

"Don't," the younger sibling snapped, aware as to where she was going with her point.

"Actually, it would've been better to have not accepted your school letter…"

"I said enough Harry!"

"You wouldn't have to deal with it if -"

"SHUT UP!" His threat was so fierce she went quiet in one moment. She seemed to have been sent into a petrified state.

"Jeez, I'm just saying," she retorted, coming back with attitude.

His wand was locked in his hand in such a flash she couldn't blink or else she'd miss it. Her eyes went wide and she backed into the end of the couch, clutching onto the furniture for dear life. "You…you wouldn't," she wondered, alarmed.

"You never know," he smirked, totally aware that he would do such a thing if his sister insulted him again.

"You could get expelled…"

"You know what, Harry? I am aware that you hate me." She gave him a look of pure disgust. "I know you always have. But you know what I want most of all? I don't want to take anymore of your crap. I've had it. You say I'm different, fine. I accept that. But nothing can stop me from being who I am." Her look was blank as he rambled on. "If you don't like me magic, well that sucks for you. You'll just have to deal with it."

He stored his weapon away in his pocket and walked up to her with his chest puffed out, making him look like a young soldier. Strong and tough, able to take on anything. When he was right in her face, he was prepared for her to burst out in a mortifying argument.

And that's exactly what she did. At first she started off in a low voice, but then it just rose with every word, but as she yelled, John only smiled evilly. "You're the one who's messed everything up for me! Because of you and your 'special wizard magic', you get all the attention. What do I get? NOTHING! You don't even need to ask for anything, but you get it all because you're mummy's boy."

"Oh, so you take it out on me because I'm doing nothing to get attention?"

"Yes you are!"

"How?" She couldn't answer. "Let me ask you that; how? How can I grab the attention of Mum with my magic?" He waited for her response, but none came. "If you know I'd get expelled if I performed magic, then how do I get her to focus on me?"

"That's not the point!" she shouted, her irascible personality showing. "The point is that you think you're cooler than everyone else in this family, and you don't bother to find out anything about them except the details of yourself!"

"That is entirely not true! You know that Harry. How many times have I shown it in the last year? Proved that I love every single human being in this household?"

"To me? I don't think you ever did! Maybe a couple times, but other than that, never!"

"Well why are you calling me out for it? I want to know about my future just as much as you do, Harry. I don't want it wrecked and causing a reaction that will twist my family relations."

"Well, if you want to have a  _decent_ relationship with me," she emphasized the word for an effect, "then you better not even show me a hint of magic while I'm near you!"

 _She's pissed._ John knew she was maybe even going to punch him if she had the nerve, but he made the next move and promptly ended their fight.

"You know what?"

"Shut up. You've said that way too many times already…"

He made a clamping motion with his fingers to get her to shut her mouth. "Fine. You know what I believe?" he asked, leaning in closer so she had to bend her lower back and move away. "I think…you're jealous." What she thought her brother was playing at was unknown. He stopped and smiled behind sealed lips.

"Completely jealous."

And finishing off the battle he'd won, he brushed off his left shoulder with sass, spinning away and pacing down the hall, leaving his sister staring into space and alone, utterly in shock.


	4. I See Fire

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 4)**

I See Fire

* * *

As a result of burning Harriet and proving she was jealous of his family popularity, John received the silent treatment and she didn't speak a word to him. He was personally glad he did it, partly because he spoke the truth and the other half being she deserved it.

Four days after their screaming battle, John's owl Athiel hooted at him as he scrambled out of bed. His hair was ruffled in all kinds of shapes and his shorts stuck to his legs with sweat.  _Damn,_ he concluded,  _must have had another nightmare._

He rolled out of bed and went to see what the commotion was, trying to squint and decipher what his pet was screeching about. His befuddled brain snapped awake as a second owl came soaring directly towards his face, a familiar rectangular letter tried to its claw. John had just a split second to fling open the window before the animal flew right into his room and landed on his mattress with a loud  _thump,_ pooped from the tiring journey.

"God," John remarked, sitting on top of the covers and stroking the bird which had fallen over. "You'd think these creatures would have such a high level of stamina. Clearly, some don't," he stated, looking directly into the owl's dark brown irises.

The bird made a few clipping noises with its beak as John untied his letter from Hogwarts. Then, before opening it to read his annual message before summer ended, he offered his arm out on the surface of the mattress so the owl could step onto it. He gritted his teeth a little as the sharp claws found his skin, but he carried the animal over to where Athiel was perched on top of her open cage.

"There you go," he said, letting the owl step off his arm and into the cage. "Get some food and water. You can stay here for a few days before I send you off again."

Rubbing his slightly scratched and bleeding arm, John went back to his mail and ripped the seal from the envelope. The parchment almost felt like heaven against his fingertips compared to normal Muggle paper, and he unfolded the letter to read the short message from the the head of Gryffindor house.

_Dear Mr. Watson,_

_Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King's Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o'clock._

_A list if books for your next year is enclosed._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Professor M. McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Just to give him an idea of what he would be studying in the upcoming year, John took out the book list and scanned the page, finding most of the books to be just a more advanced edition than the previous one.

"Okay," he said, throwing his mail on the bedside table. "Oi!" he snapped, looking up to see Athiel nibbling on the new owl's wing. "Leave him alone. Be nice and share," her owner demanded. She gave him attitude and backed away from the male, trying to be the dominant queen of the room.

Watson sighed and ran a hand though his hair before getting up and heading for the kitchen. It was only 9:10 but his stomach growled and longed for breakfast. His door clicked open and he turned the corner to head straight to his destination, not even needing to take fifteen steps.

He stopped in confusion as his father was settled at the end of the dining room table, drowning a mug of coffee and biting some light-brown toast. "Dad?" the son asked, mildly confused and curious," what are you doing here? Don't you have work today?" Ever since Mr. Watson had retired from the Army he'd been working in a large factory, producing steel and other building supplies.

"Oh! Morning, John. No, I get to stay home today," he informed the smaller boy. "We apparently had an unexpected power outage early this morning and need some guys to come in and fix it. We'll be back in action tomorrow."

"Oh. Okay." John shrugged his shoulders and supposed it was a legit reason not to go to work. He fished in the cupboard for some cereal and found some wheat flakes, so he decided to settle on them for his first meal of the day.

The milk was hidden in the back of the fridge, so he had to shift stuff and dig for the gallon. Once he was ready to eat, he joined his father at the other end of the table, pulling his chair in as close as he could.

Harriett decided to join both of them about five minutes later, rubbing her sleepy eyes and moving her long hair off her face. She rolled her eyes when she saw her brother but made her food anyways.

"What happened to your arm, John?" his father asked, shoving a large piece of toast into his mouth and spotting the large red scrapes indented into the blonde's skin.

"Oh..." He paused to notice his sister was eavesdropping. "Owl," was all he was able to mumble.

"Great," said the parent, swallowing before continuing on. "Did you get something from a friend? You know, like a late birthday present?"

"Huh? Oh! No, it was my letter from school just reminding me when the next term starts."

Mr. Watson hummed as he heard, and Harriett made her way over to the table behind his back. As she sat down and swung her legs over the chair, she purposefully put pressure on her little brother's injured arm.

"OUCH!" John screamed, giving her a dirty look as she tried to hide her snickering sneer. He rubbed it tenderly and nearly knocked his cereal over the edge, sending it down to the wooden floor. "What was that for?" he bellowed, waiting for an appropriate answer.

"Sorry," she said, and John was appalled that she couldn't come back with something nicer. "I just didn't see it -"

"Oh don't give me that," John spat, getting seriously angry as their father watched and attempted to separate the bickering children. "You hate me."

"John, enough," was all their father was able to get out before he was interrupted again.

"No. Sorry Dad, but I seriously need to get something out right now. Harry, you need to piss off."

"John!"

But he kept ranting on, not caring if he was swearing right in front of his parents or insulting his sibling. "I've had it with you. You show your hate for me like I'm a disgusting slug. Will you just get along with me, and appreciate the fact of who I am as a person? I am sorry I am  _'different',_ but you're just going to have to live with that."

He rose from his seat and took his unfinished meal with him, sighing loudly so he made sure she heard. John didn't even bother to clean off his dishes and went straight to his room, slamming the door behind him and fighting to yell out in rage.

There was only one place he could go where no one would disturb him as he debated over his thoughts. Harry wouldn't dare enter their tree house anymore because she was too lazy to climb up the ladder, and nobody else in their family could fit in the entrance opening at the top without having difficulty.

He texted Sherlock before getting dressed.

**Please come over as soon as you can. I need to talk to you. -JW**

He scurried around his messy room and found a white tank top and a pair of black sports shorts to throw on quickly. Then he went down the hall to brush his teeth and flatten his hair, making sure Harry wouldn't criticize him as he passed through the dining room to open the porch door and exit into their backyard. He even found an ace bandage and covered his damaged arm, hoping it would heal soon.

He knew he had to put on sandals so he didn't get splinters in his feet, so he slipped on a secure pair and headed out into the glorious sunshine. Harry had moved on and went back upstairs to do a summer school project, and his father was doing the dishes in an old pair of jeans and a baggy t-shirt.

"John," he began, watching his son unlock the sliding door that led outside.

"I'm sorry, Dad." He really did mean it and pulled his best depressed face. "I just need some alone time."

His shoes squeaked as he strolled over the wooden patio and descended the small staircase that led to the backyard. The sun beat down on his tiny, stocky body as he walked through the grass, feeling the blades brush against the tops of his feet. A small pile of dirt was stacked by the far corner of the house, a result of part of his mum's process of gardening.

The wooden swing he'd had a grand old time on as a kid was broken and only hanging by half of the rope, but he ignored it and passed right by in the goal to reach the tree's base.

John climbed the dozen boards nailed to the bark to hoist himself up onto the platform a few yards above. From there the steps were built like a winding staircase of a library, and he skipped a few at a time while running his fingers gently over the railing. It was a fancier tree house than normal, but when he reached the main hut he had to duck and crawl to fit under a square opening that was three and a half feet tall and three feet wide.

There were very few glass windows built into the wood, and they all opened except the one that was in his thinking corner. Without hesitation he automatically went and settled himself onto the floor, leaning back against the nearest wall to let all out stress out with a long breath.

He suddenly wished he had brought his book up with him, but the thoughts clustered in his head would prevent him from writing anything useful down. Instead there was a rubber ball by his hip, and he picked it up and chucked it at the opposite wall, watching it roll sluggishly back to him.

He continued to throw it just to solve his boredom, but when he heard another noise outside disturb his peace, he stopped and the ball left him and settled on the far side of the room.

"John?" His father's deep voice spread over the silence, passing through their yard to check on his son. "John, please come out of hiding."

He was interrupted by another noise coming from beyond their fenced property, and his dad told John the answer to who it was by calling out to the newcomer.

"Morning, Sherlock!"  _Wow, that was fast. Good thing though._ "How have you been? John tends to talk about you a lot when he's around me."

"Does he? Well, I can imagine why. I'm been doing well, Mr. Watson." He spoke with such precise grammar as they chatted below so John could hear. "How have you and your family been?"

"For the most part, we've been okay. I know you've been informed about the troubled relationship between John and his sister."

John heard the lighter pair of footsteps shuffling at the tree's base, scraping minerals that were mixed in the dirt under his shoes. He only heard his father explain, "He's having a rough time," before Sherlock's voice echoed below.

"I'll talk some sense into him."  _Seriously Sherlock?_

There was a  _clang_ as the house door slid shut and then a soft patting sound was all John heard. He looked out of the square window next to where he sat in the corner, huddled up and alone with his head resting against the wooden wall. When the ascending feet had stopped and Sherlock's heavy breathing filled the room, John spoke his honesty first.

"I'm really not in the mood for a lecture," he admitted, not taking his eyes off a small bird darting along the grassy ground below.

"I wasn't going to." John was both glad about the comment and the sound of the brunette's soothing voice. He turned his head to see the taller boy about six feet away, standing in shorts which looked odd on his figure.

"But," the Ravenclaw progressed, taking a seat a safe distance diagonally from the blonde, "you didn't have to yell at your sister like that."

"Why not?" Watson questioned, shrugging his shoulders as his temper was rising. "She's the one who's causing trouble, not me."

"You just need to give her time to return to normal. It's just like me and Mycroft."

"No, it's not, Sherlock!" The eagle looked taken aback and shifted farther away on his backside. Watson's temper was hot but lowered as he continued with his violent fact. "You don't understand. Harry 100% hates me and she'll  _never_  accept the fact that I am a wizard. I can't even look at her without her freaking out." He turned away again and nestle his cheek into his bent knees.

Holmes was silent for a few minutes before coming up with good advice to share. "You just have to build up a stronger relationship with her. Take you and me for example. We care deeply for one another yet I barely know a thing about you."

The Gryffindor snorted. "That's a lie."

"No really! If you think about it, you haven't really told me much about your life. I've had to pretty much find out for myself." John tilted his head and reconsidered the matter.

"What you got to do is just start slow, like with the easy yet highly personal stuff."

"Uh oh. 'Highly personal stuff.' Like what?" Watson asked, semi afraid of the upcoming response.

Holmes racked his brain for a few seconds before coming up with the stupidest question he could think of. "Something like...what's your favorite color?"

"Well you've gone too far with Harriet." Sherlock laughed as his buddy turned his head away and didn't so much as blink.

"Well, I'm not addressing Harriet, am I? I'm talking about you." The lion didn't quite register the projection and watched Holmes in a daze. The brunette carried on. "Seriously, just tell me what it is."

John stared directly into Sherlock's green eyes and let out his final answer. "I don't have one."

"Meaning you literally don't or you have more that one?" He was getting really picky and wanted a straight up fact.

"I'm stuck between two," John let out.

The eagle wasn't satisfied yet. "And they are...?"

His reply came back in a dreamy tone while he looked so calm and placid. "Blue and green." The Gryffindor had a wardrobe full of the two colors and seemed to have more objects in the shades than any other one. "What's yours?" he wondered, finding himself repeating the same question and also wanting a response.

"Well, if I had to choose one besides black, because it's not a color -"

"Black isn't a color?"

"No. It's a shade. Pink is also not a color. Proven fact. You can't make pink on a color wheel."

"Thanks for the information. I'll take note of it. Probably store it in the back of my brain and forget about it." The Ravenclaw peered at the floor over his bent knees and shut his lips. "So? Which would you choose besides black?"

"I-I..."

"If you say pink I will seriously mark this day down in history,"John joked.

"No! Don't do that!" He never rejected that it wasn't his favorite color.

"So it is pink?" the lion teased.

"Absolutely not." The Gryffindor stuck out his tongue and bit down on it with his teeth while smiling just to irritate his friend and the brunette smirked before concluding. "If you desperately want to know..." He sighed and paused like he was ashamed by it, "It's purple."

John pressed his lips together and nodded his head in slow motion. "I can see that," he mused, staring at Sherlock with a sharp eye. "I mean, you always wear your purple shirt, which by the way looks stunning on you..." The blonde suddenly covered his mouth at the positive comment he gave to the older kid.

"Haha," Sherlock giggled, flattered by his John blushing. "Why thank you," he also added, pleased that someone approved of his dress habits.

John gulped and made a sort of squealing shriek. "I did not mean to blurt that out..."

"Well, sucks that you can't take it back now." The brunette grinned and both of the boys laughed while bowing their heads to the floor. When they both recovered from their fits, Sherlock spoke up and scanned the unknown place he was sitting in.

"How come you never come up here?" he asked, eyeing a crack in one of the walls where a ray of sunlight blinded his vision.

Watson shrugged. "I don't know. I'm growing a little too big now to be able to fit through the door. I hate crawling under there," he said, pointing to the square cutout that made up the entrance. "But," he paused, coming up with a good outcome to the problem, "Harriet never comes up here, so I can get some alone time when I need it." Holmes lifted his head to the ceiling and saw the pointed roof above.

"Are you having any problems with Mycroft lately?" The question was uncalled for but Sherlock answered honestly anyways.

"No. He's been busy with Ministry stuff. He's hoping to get a job right after he gets out of Hogwarts, but he has to get good grades on his exams first. He mostly spends his time shut up in his bedroom. Why do you ask?"

"Well, if you wanted you could have a sleepover with me? Right here in this tree house."

"I don't think 'sleepover' is a proper term to use in our case, John. I believe we're much too old for that." The lion blushed. "But I'd been willing to, and I'm sure my parents won't mind. Do you mean as in tonight?"

"I think I've got something planned, but we could do it tomorrow for sure." He straightened his spine to look taller while sitting down. "I don't know. Maybe we can find out more about each other," he joked.

"Ha, yeah. I think if I knew your personality better, I'd be able to understand a human being easier."

"Well, what does that mean?" the blonde asked, looking puzzled.

"It...never mind. It's irrelevant. I'll see you later, John." The Ravenclaw pushed himself off the floor and stood, his knee cracking as he shifted his weight.

"Wait," Watson begged, grabbing hold of the rim of his shorts and tugging him closer. "Where are you going? Can't you stay a little longer?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and frowned. "I would love to, but I'm deeply saddened to pass on that Redbeard is extremely sick."

"Oh no..." John leaped up and threw his arms around his best friend. What was remarkable was that Sherlock hugged back at once, knowing how upset John was for him. "I haven't even met him yet," the Gryffindor sniffed, his nose buried into the taller boy's shoulder and his voice muffled.

"I know," the brunette replied, pulling away slowly. "I promise he'll get better and then you can see him." John's eyes were pink and he nodded. "Okay?"

The blonde's head bowed. Sherlock wrapped his arm around the little friend's neck and brought him in tight, resting his chin in the depths of the kid's sandy locks.

"Okay. I'll see you soon." Holmes backed up and slowly left his buddy alone, reaching his arm out as far as possible before the hand contact broke between them. He paused before John was out of sight and threw out a new piece of information he thought his friend should know. "Oh, and just to let you know, we got our Hogwarts letters the other day. Mycroft's Head Boy." The top of his curly head fell below the floor line of the platform, and the lion was secluded as he remained single in the tiny hut, giggling at the thought of Mycroft being so bossy and the two of them bothering the seventh year Slytherin.

* * *

As the next sweltering day continued on and blended into the previous with a glorious sunset, John somehow found himself back at his old primary school's playground. Sherlock had offered to accompany him, taking the mile walk alongside his friend to get out of his air-conditioned house. As they made it to their destination, John sauntered over to the swings as if by natural habit as Sherlock lagged behind, standing a dozen feet away at the tip of the Gryffindor's shadow on the woodchip-covered terrain. The shorter wizard plopped his bag next to the swing set structure pole, letting the tightening strings release from the grip of his hand.

He looked around suddenly and tossed between two things to say before announcing his decision. "Do you ever feel like you're just trapped inside this bubble that won't pop? Like you're secluded from the world and it won't burst till you fix something?"

Holmes stopped pacing and stepped a little closer to the lion. "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno. Probably because I feel that way." He paused before using hand motions to wave them in unique shapes before his shoulders. "Is there any way to pop it?"

"Don't be silly. Of course there is," Sherlock said, settling in the swing next to him.

"How?"

"Like this," he replied sarcastically, making his finger pretend to burst a hole in a dome of air three feet from the blonde.

John took it as a joke. "No, I mean literally."

"Well, what exactly are you trying to fix? I don't comprehend what you're getting at…"

"I-I don't quite understand." The sharpness of John's British accent flew through the air and made music to Sherlock's ears. "It seems like the scar in my life is Harriet and her attitude, and the only thing that's keeping my protection sewn together by a thread is the fact that I'm a wizard, even if that's totally contradictory."

"Tell me about it." Watson sighed as his ocean irises fixed on the large ditch in the ground by his All Stars.

Sherlock stared at the perfectly flattened pieces of hair at the back of John's skull before speaking out his opinion. "I think, to be honest, you should just ignore her."

"What?" The end of his word was enunciated with such preciseness.

"Seriously. If you just don't mention anything about it to her and try and act normal, not mention Hogwarts, you might actually get somewhere." He nodded his head once he'd finished.

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock looked baffled.

"I know what I have to do. The best thing to do is avoid any communication with her until she sees I'm really a trustworthy person. If she believes I'm her dangerous brother, so be it. I'll just have to prove her wrong."

Mildly impressed, the eagle fumbled with his fingers in his lap and pretended to agree that it was the best situation. How John could come up with such a plan was unknown, especially when it involved singling out his sister like that.

"So…" he coughed, getting away with changing to subject. "Any progress with your book?"

"Speaking of which, I was going to ask you about that."

"Me?" He really was drawing a blank in his scientific mind. "What have I got to do with it?"

John cleared his throat and pushed himself a little harder with his legs so he could swing higher. "Well, since you're so smart and all —" The brunette smirked like he was the king of England, even though their country didn't have one, "I figured you could help me with it."

Holmes spat out the water from the plastic bottle he'd taken a swig from. He tapped his pointer finger to his chest, opening his eyes wide while being mistaken. "Me?"

"Yeah," Watson replied, like it was casually nothing.

" _Me_?" The Ravenclaw repeated his shocked tone, knowing it was a joke that his best friend wanted help on such a big project.

"Yes you, clueless. It's not that oblivious." He snapped his fingers in front of the taller boy's green eyes to make sure he hadn't frozen in disbelief or a wire disconnected in his brain and he couldn't comprehend the offer.

Sherlock's mouth was open as his head turned to the side, his pupils finding the edge of the playground equipment. He shook his head to remove the information and properly be able to speak to his buddy again. "Help you with what, exactly?"

"You can't expect me to write a novel without an editor, do you?"

The older wizard gulped. "So…you mean, you want me to fix mistakes in your story?"

"Wow." John gave Sherlock a depleted sigh and was done with his friend's lack of processing simple statements. "I think we need to work on your reactions, especially to dumb things like this."

"You seriously expect me to accept your request?"

"Yeah, why not?" The blonde stopped rocking back and forth to become level with the brunette. He got no response from the older twelve-year-old. He even stood up and positioned himself in front of the hunched-over Ravenclaw, but Holmes remained spaced-out and left with a fuzzy mind.

The lion lowered his eyebrows and heard nothing but Sherlock's breathing and his own beating heart inside his body. He finally spoke up when the taller kid blinked for the first time in minutes. "Do I need to slap you?"

"What? No!" the sitting human stuttered, holding his arms up to act as a shield and block his face. "Don't you dare!"

"Then snap out of it!" John chuckled, finding it funny that a human being could react in such an unobservant way. He extended his arm out to signal that it was time to leave, asking his partner a final question before collecting his things. "So, do you accept my proposal or not?"

Holmes stared at the lines engraved in the palm of the Gryffindor's hand. Fighting to come up with a balanced deal, he forced himself to shout out an equal agreement. "As long as you make me read something worthwhile."

"Ha, I'm not that mean to make you edit something awful. Come," he said, pulling the older boy to his feet whether he wanted to leave or not.

"You better entertain me for the walk home, and no more flipping out like a confused robot," John stated.

"Excuse me, look who's talking…"

"When did I ever do such a thing?"

"You've been, overenthusiastic about some things before."

"Yeah, when?" John knew even before Sherlock said it.

"Our dementor lessons alone, sometimes," Holmes reminded him.

"Right…"

"Not to mention the whole family argument you had earlier this summer."

"Don't even bother mentioning that," the lion warned while rolling his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock arrived at John's for their sleepover night together at around eight, a pillow tucked under his arm and a bulge in his pants pocket that indicated he had his wand with him. Harriet ended up answering the door after the  _ding_ sound rang through the house, and she sank in her hip as Holmes stood in the doorway.

"I'm here to see John," the male indicated, as if it wasn't obvious at first.

"I'm not stupid," his buddy's sister responded, giving him the worst attitude she could show.

"Nice way to treat a guest, don't you think?" Holmes mocked her, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. "Particularly in your own house." He said no more as a new voice interrupted from the depths of the house.

"Harry, leave him alone." The younger sibling came darting around the corner, a wet cloth clutched in his paw. His sister flipped her hair in her brother's face and hustled off up the stairs, not wanting to speak another word to either of them.

"Hey," John welcomed, and Sherlock glanced down to notice that the lion's hands were filthy.

"What on earth have you been preoccupying yourself with?" he asked. John laughed and showed his brown and black hands to his fellow twelve-year-old.

"Dad got out an old car he had when he was younger, and he asked if I wanted to help clean it."  _Oh, so it's a combination of dirt, rust, and dust._ "It's an antique, and I kinda got a little excited when he showed it to me. I suppose I'll stop now that you're here."

"Um, no. You can keep going if you'd like." Sherlock shrugged off the refusal and didn't want to spoil the good time John was having.

"Oh please. I can't just ignore my best friend. I'll just put it off and continue some other day. We should probably set up our sleeping place anyways." He tried to rub his fingers off on the white towel but it didn't have any effect. "Oh, come on in." He forgot to let the Ravenclaw enter and stepped back so he could, motioning for him to head down the hall and into the kitchen.

"Just give me a minute," Watson said, sliding behind the brunette to dunk his hands in soapy water filling the sink. His mother was settled on the couch in front of an empty fireplace, and when she saw her son's schoolmate had arrived she rose to greet him.

"Sherlock! How are you?"

"I'm great, Mrs. Watson. Thank you for asking." He pulled off a sweet smile and stepped out of the way so she could pass by.

"Man, this stuff really does stick to your skin," John commented, having to press down hard to remove the dirt from his hands and arms. It took him several minutes to scrub them completely clean, and when he dried his hands he had Sherlock follow him into the backyard.

The sky was already switching stages as they trudged across the grass, the taller boy hesitant as to where they were going. As he opened his mouth, John told him where they would sleep for the night.

"I thought it would be cool to camp out in our tree house tonight," he informed his friend.

"How did you lug all the sleeping stuff up there?" Sherlock questioned, a frown on his face.

"Watch and learn. Stay down here while I climb up real quick." And off he went, his blonde head darting between branches as he climbed multiple flights of stairs to reach the balcony above. Once he reached the top, he had to shout down to the ground in order for the older boy to hear him.

"See that bin right there?" he checked, pointing in a general direction of where it was located. Sherlock spotted it just to his right and dropped his belongings in it. He waved and gave a thumbs up so the little wizard knew he was clear to pull, and so his things lifted up to where the Gryffindor was hauling next to the outer wall of the shed in the tree.

His timing was perfect as he reached John's side just as the younger school member was lugging his guest's belongings into the hole that led inside the tree house. "After you," Watson smiled, stepping back as Sherlock slid under the top of the square cut-out in the wood to crawl into their sleeping place.

It was packed with pillows, sleeping bags, and blankets all around. It seemed not an inch of the actual floor could be seen, but the various squishy objects that littered the floor stuck up where certain nails poked out of the wood.

"I hope it's comfy enough," John piped up, his arm brushing against Sherlock's shoulder as he walked further into the hut.

"More than that," Holmes felt like saying, and he scooted over to where a corner had undoubtedly been set up for him.

John pulled out a pair of fresh pajamas from underneath a striped blanket and shyly felt embarrassed to ask for a little favor. "Would you mind turning around while I get changed? I'll do the same for you if you'd like…"

"Oh. Um, sure." The eagle rolled over onto his stomach and occupied himself with his phone while John swapped out his clothes for sleepwear. When he finished, the blonde let him know and Sherlock prepared to get into his favorite pajamas as well. John stood in a forest green t-shirt and blue-grey pants. He ran a hand through his blonde locks as he turned around to let his friend change, messing up the flip that was in the front of his skull.

The lamp that was in the corner sent a luminous glow in the square room, leaving a fraction of Sherlock's body in the darkness as he sat down and told John he could turn around. They both slouched and faced each other, Sherlock against a wall and John forwards, staring into each other's eyes as they debated what to say.

"What are you reading?"

"Huh?" The sandy-haired kid looked startled and glanced over his shoulder at the book beside his pillow. There was also a box of crackers in case he got hungry. "Oh. I got the idea to read it from you, actually." He showed the cover to his best friend, a black and white cloud on top of each other with words sketched on their surfaces.

"Hmm," he hummed, liking John's taste in reading. " _The Fault In Our Stars_ by John Green. Such a sad but beautiful tale," he left his remark.

"Thanks for the alert," the younger boy inquired, knowing something terrible probably happened later on. "Is it your favorite book?" he asked, trying to kick up a conversation.

"I'd say one of my favorites," the curly-haired wizard came back with, shrugging his shoulders. "I also enjoyed the  _Lord Of The Rings_ trilogy. Another fantastic selection."

"Yeah, I know. Those are probably my favorite, behind  _The Hobbit_ of course," the shorter boy said.

"I suggest the  _Divergent_ trilogy as well, since I know you're into  _The Hunger Games_ so much," Sherlock told him. "I personally didn't like the ending of  _Mockingjay,_ but it's a decent series. Thrilling and powerful."

"Same here. I've never read  _Divergent_ though, yet. I've heard it's phenomenal, so I'll have to check it out."

"Who's your favorite band?" Sherlock asked, now becoming emerged in finding out everything he could about his most trusted friend.

John bit his lip in intense thought. "That's a tough one," he knew, but he came up with a reasonable conclusion anyways. "I like  _Imagine Dragons_ a lot, along with  _OneRepublic_ and  _A Great Big World._ I think my favorite female singer is  _Ellie Goulding._ "

"Interesting taste," Holmes nodded, knowing he'd heard most of those bands' songs before.

"What's yours?" John wanted to know what type of music Sherlock listened to, and they were off in a deep conversation, heading in the direction of talking about favorite school subjects, what they possibly wanted to do after Hogwarts, their favorite television shows, and some other odd assortments thrown in there.

When the time slipped to after eleven thirty, rain began to lash on the glass windows and dampened the wood walls, but both boys were cozy and protected in the safety of the hut. John's eyes started to fall closed, and he fell into a deep sleep with a distant rumble of thunder in his ears. Sherlock had drifted off a few minutes earlier, and a gentle flash of lightning lit up his pale face as John smiled and closed his tired eyes.

* * *

What woke him hours later was the shaking of the floor under his hips, and John knew something was up when the rain was pounding so hard against the tree house that he thought the window next to him would break. He felt droplets brushing his cheeks as they squeezed through the holes and cracks in the wall, and as his head fell even further into his pillow, he saw a bright glow behind his shut eyelids.

His eyes peeked open, and they became alarmed when his body went rigid and gasped from the frightful sight he witnessed. Through a dark grey cloud of smoke, John saw flickering flames spreading over the ceiling of the tree house. The fire was building up rapidly, and he heard a cracking noise from somewhere outside, hoping it wasn't a branch breaking.

Shoving his book under his pillow, he stumbled as he stood and a blazing beam of lightning blinded his vision. "Sherlock!" he shouted, running over to wake his friend. Either he was a deep sleeper or he simply couldn't hear over the roar of the storm, because he didn't stir.

He only got halfway to the brunette before the beam under his left foot collapsed and his entire leg fell through the floor. He gave a frightened yell and could feel cold rain tapping against his pajama-covered leg. If he squirmed and struggled, it only made his situation worse.

"SHERLOCK!"

At such a desperate cry for help, Holmes flew up from his lying down position and scanned the room for a warning, and sure enough when he saw the orange fire and it reflected off the glossy exterior of his eyes, he jumped up immediately and grabbed Watson's arm.

"John! Come on, you can do it! Don't fall!" The blonde was gritting his teeth in pain. His hip was digging into its own socket and was rubbing against another bone. He screamed out and his noise cut off inside the walls of the closed-in room, but his mouth closed as Sherlock gave one last courageous haul and the shorter boy broke free of the hole.

The lion toppled over and landed on the back of the eagle's knees. The Ravenclaw had somehow managed to flip over as he fell, and the Gryffindor sprung to his feet at once and wanted to get out of the burning building as soon as possible. He was coughing as Sherlock stood up to join him, barely able to see three yards in front of him and search for the exit. A crack filled the sky like a gunshot, piercing through the boys' hearing like an explosion.

That's when the beam above both their heads fell with a tremendous weight.

The luck of it missing his full head and grazing his check instead was a relief, but Sherlock was standing in the wrong place and the large roof piece slammed into the side of his neck. The blow was severe and knocked him out on direct contact, and John's hand covered his mouth in fear almost in sync while Holmes's heavy body collapsed to smash into the sleeping bags under his feet, lucky that he had a cushioned place to land on.

John fought back tears and wiped sweat droplets from his forehead. Shaking because a dominant fire was right over his head, he dragged the larger human along the floor to the entrance, smoke filling his lungs. He pushed the Ravenclaw out the front door and crawled out afterwards, becoming automatically drenched in the pouring rain. He hauled Holmes under the armpits with his elbows, finding it uncomfortable, and had to shift his carrying stance as he had to descend the stairs.

It was easy to get down to the lower platform, but when he had to hold onto small rectangles nailed into the tree, of which were two or three feet apart, it was much more difficult. Sherlock's head was over his stronger shoulder, and he had to climb down while carrying someone who was a good twenty pounds more than his own weight.

He did remarkably well, watching the fire above grow and become much larger, heading into the upper branches of the tree, but his right foot slipped and both wizards fell the last seven feet to land hard on the grass. His hands dug into a pile of mud, and Sherlock landed face up a few meters away. Watson rushed over on his hands and knees, seeing the gash in the brunette's neck had widened.

"No!" He fired up his brain and closed his eyes tightly, squeezing his fingers into fists. His best shot was to help him, obviously, and the only way to do so was by breaking the law. "Come on," he gasped through heavy breaths, forcing himself to concentrate. When he opened his eyes and released the pressure in his palms, his hands were letting off yellow wavy lines of magic as the whole of his arms glowed. John held them over Sherlock's body and heaved a few monstrous and energy-consuming gasps.

He used up all his strength to conjure up some magic that he hadn't performed in a while; with his hands. Not even having to utter the syllables of a spell, his hands released off an excessive amount of energy as he gritted his teeth. This skin around the wound in Sherlock's neck began to heal, but the blood continued to drip down the side of his skull.

"Please!" John yelled, making his mind bring together a powerful spell strong enough to save a life. The light from his hands grew brighter as he grew more desperate, fighting to sew everything back together so it was normal. "HELP!"

He keeled over in defeat as the strength seemed to be sucked out of his arms at the last second. He dived head first into the dirt, waiting for a sign of his friend being alive. A coughing fit suddenly struck him and he almost couldn't breathe.

There was a new noise that came into play over the sound of himself gagging, and it was the familiar brushing of two porch doors sliding next to each other. John looked up, white as a ghost to see his own sister miraculously and oddly coming to his aid. The brother stopped her as she reached the top of the patio steps, and she halted and took not a step more.

The younger sibling pointed a finger at her and shouted over the vibrant wind. "Go call an ambulance, NOW!"

She needed no further demand and sprinted back inside the house. But when she opened the door and flew back around to check on her brother, he had gone rigid and was falling backwards. Footsteps bounded inside the house, their parents hurrying to see what the commotion was, but Harriet squealed out before they even got to the bottom of the stairs at the front of the house.

"John!"

He'd used all his faithful ability to heal his friend, leaving not a spare bit of energy left to keep him awake as he faded away and darkness enveloped him, the fire in the tree still blazing bright like a torch while lighting up the empty night sky.


	5. Drag Me Down

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 5)**

Drag Me Down

* * *

His head banged against something soft, and then his whole body was swallowed by a squishy surface. John didn't open his eyes for a while as it would be a distraction to the people attending to him. He heard a constant beeping to his left, and the next thing he knew a wire was connected to the inside of his nose, circulating and pumping oxygen through his body.

Yes, it was best to remain silent, not moving a muscle as he fought the urge to cough up smoke in his lungs. Once all the doctors in the room had departed and left him to rest, he pulled from his groggy stance and rolled his head to the side, preparing to open his eyes.

It was mostly dark except for a couple of blue and red flashing lights outside a square window. The siren of an ambulance barely blared in his ears, but it wasn't enough noise to cover up the beeping from a machine.

 _Sherlock._ That was the first thing he noticed was missing. His best friend was not by his side, meaning that he too must have been in a separate vehicle. But it didn't matter, because John rose his head a little and went to attempt to sit up, but he all the sudden became quite dizzy and an unknown hand pushed him down anyways.

"Sherlock?" he rasped, more in a question that a cry. But the human sitting on the bench next to his bed with wheels had immense strength and wouldn't let him move.  _Definitely not him,_ the patient assured.

"No, lie down. It's not worth you getting even more hurt than you already are, little brother."

 _What? Wait, am I going insane?_ He peeled his eyelids open and tilted his skull in the direction of the female's voice, sure enough finding his sibling seated next to him and watching over the blond. "Harriet?" he questioned, and she caught the confused and desperate tone he presented her with.

"Yeah." Her voice was soothing and serene; John didn't know it could be so heart-warming. She whispered so he wouldn't flip out on her, "It's okay. You're fine. Don't stress." Harriet leaned forwards to stroke the edge of his hairline. John suddenly noticed he didn't feel anything against his chest but the covers of a bed, and he panicked when his shirt wasn't on and his sibling saw him in his bare skin.

"What happened?" he asked, and the Gryffindor was being serious. He couldn't remember injuring himself, and certainly not feeling any pain, except for when he collapsed out of the tree.

"Well, you must have been unaware. A branch must have skimmed your arm. You got cut and were given a few burns on your left arm. I...I hope you don't end up with a scar." She was actually afraid for him.

John shifted his view and stared at what was now just his arm wrapped in a large pale bandage. He shot out a regret he hoped wasn't true. "I think that was the same arm the owl scratched me on."

Their ambulance gave a sudden lurch and stopped, causing the two siblings to bend to one side to steady themselves. The door at the front end of the car slid open, revealing a small group of doctors dressed in white and teal. "Ah, our patient has woken," one said in a deep, male voice. "How are you feeling?"

Without even answering the question properly, John blurted out, "Can I get up and walk around?" He knew he would never be allowed to do such a thing, but he didn't know unless he tried.

"Woah, hang in there buddy. You just started to recover. You've got several burns on your arm —"

"Yes, but I want to see my friend." At the sight of his pleading irises, the doctor debated how to let him enter the hospital on foot.

On an unfamiliar note, his sister decided to step in too. "Please sir," she intervened, pulling her best polite manners, "I'll accompany him in if you'd like. You know, keep an eye on my younger brother."

John was now sitting up, pressure only on his good arm with the tube still connected to his nostrils. He looked like he'd been told the horrible news that someone he loved had passed away, and his nurses figured out a way he could get out of bed.

"Alright." Watson almost jumped for joy but then realized he would injure himself even more, so he rose higher in his seat regardless. The main doctor wasn't finished and gave his patient a short but significant speech. "But you have to be careful. We don't want you to damage yourself even more. You'll have to stay hooked up to an oxygen tank, since you've still got some smoke in your lungs. We don't want you suddenly passing out."

"I will," John perked up, promising he would do whatever he was forced to in order to see Sherlock Holmes.

"Alright. Kurt, will you go grab a tank for this young fellow?" A young adult nodded and pushed through the door to a supply room right on the truck. Within a few minutes, he was back with a small duffle bag on wheels, and John could see the top of a metal container just barely sticking out of the top.

"Okay. Just hold still for a few seconds. Let's plug you in." Doctor Phil unhooked John from the beeping machine, and the little blond felt like he was released from a struggling bond. In a fraction of a moment he was free, but then he was secured up to the portable supply of oxygen, feeling it pump air in through his nose.

"Now, you can get up, just  _extremely_  slowly." He demanded for the wizard to take extra precaution, and so Harriet held his hand while he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled off the mattress.

"You feeling okay?" his sister asked, checking his status while he situated himself. "Not dizzy or anything?"

"Nope. I'm fine."

"Great." His doctor turned to directly address Harriet, giving her the sternest look he could muster. "Now, keep a close watch over him. He can go in to see his friend alone, but he should have company in the waiting room." He gave the demand and she responded, making sure he knew she understood.

"I'll be by his side at all times, Doctor. I promise."

"Good. You might have to wait a bit in the lobby while they get your rescued friend settled in, but then you should be free to go and visit him." John noticed the emphasis on 'rescued' _,_ hinting possibly that the lion was a hero.  _What would Sherlock say to that?_

Watson smiled to show he was thankful, and he gripped his sister's hand tightly even though he didn't need support. He hadn't held her hand with ease since he was a child, but she had transformed right in front of him and was now that caring older sibling he wished he had known earlier. Harriet's other hand was on his uninjured pale arm, and the crew of the emergency vehicle split the doors open on the hinges so both the brother and sister could depart.

To the right, almost around a corner was a second ambulance, but the back of it was empty. The blond gave the girl a look of compacted happiness, merely expressing a weak smile, and he delicately asked to switch his position. He carried the oxygen tank behind him on the wheels with his right arm, and Harriet hooked her elbow around his upper arm that was closest to her, making sure he didn't break down when he walked. His bandaged arm was attached to the front of his chest; he held it like it was broken, but not close enough to rub against his body and send fire pulsing in his blood.

"Where's Mum and Dad?" he suddenly wondered, and she stepped into the building first and scooted to the side so he could fit in the gap too.

Harriet waved lightly to a passerby and answered his thought. "I think they either went in Sherlock's ambulance or they're on their way right now." That was the first time John had heard her use his schoolmate's name freely in public. "Do you wish to take the stairs or the elevator?" she double checked with him, making sure her brother's opinion came before her own.

"Elevator," was the flat out obvious response she got. "I'm not even used to this thing," he said, nodding downwards and backwards in the direction of the tank. "I feel like I'm a patient in a bed in a hospital room, only there's no bed. Ironic."

Harriet snorted a little. "You are a patient," she commented, bopping him on the nose. He shifted and tried to smack her arm away with his shoulder, almost recognizing his dominant arm was busted too late after it shifted.

The older of the pair let her younger brother do the honors of pushing the elevator button, as she knew most little siblings fought over such a stupid thing all the time at an early age. The doors peeled open almost immediately, and she let the boy shuffle in first.

When the boundary shut and they were alone, John let off a loud series of coughs. The girl weaved an arm around his back, patting it softly just between his shoulder bones. "Shh..." she comforted, and he stopped while gasping for air through his mouth, forgetting he had a tube in his nose that was doing that for him. "You okay?" she finished, hoping his answer was positive.

"Yeah," he gurgled, swallowing the wad of spit that was stuck in the back of his throat. There was a  _ding_ as they reached their destination, floor two, and Harriet led him over to a checkin desk to find where Sherlock had been taken.

"Hello," the man behind the counter greeted. His badge on his work clothes read  _James Sholto._ Before he could go any further, John interrupted him.

"You used to be a commander in the Army," he stated. The surgeon looked baffled and stared down on the eleven-year-old. His sister also looked appalled, since he'd basically just invaded the man's personal history.

"And how do you know that?" the gentleman smiled sweetly, hoping the kid would get it wrong.

The answer was pretty stupid and lame, but John replied anyways. "I've just seen a few articles in the newspaper a couple years back. Plus you can't doubt the nature of your posture comes from years of fighting."

The man looked both amused and personally defeated. Then he spoke with a delighted expression on his face. "You've got quite a field for seeing the past, kid."

"I really try not too," John honestly said. "I've just learned how to do it from an expert."  _That was for you, Sherlock._

"So," the retired Major carried on, "how can I help you?"

Harriet was the first to answer. "We'd like to see someone. Well, he would," she paused, tilting her head over to her brother. "He probably just arrived a few minutes ago."

"What's the name?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John wanted to say his friend's name more than Harry did. The doctor scanned through a list of the patients on that floor, and he looked up with news to tell.

"He's been checked in already. I'll go in real quick and see if you're free to talk to him." And with that he left and the sister tugged on her brother's wrist.

"Come. Let's sit down, since you'll be leaving soon and I'll have to wait out here." John didn't object and lugged the bag on wheels behind him. Several people in the waiting area stopped to stare at him, but he didn't care if he looked like he had some sort of disease.

He listened to a luscious melody while he sat waiting, and he'd never heard the song before but found it both beautiful and depressing, the words making him feel like he was suffering, which in a way he was.

" _I have nothing left to give, I have found the perfect end, you were made to make it hurt, disappear into the dirt. Carry me to heaven's arms, light the way and let me go, take the time to take my breath, I will end where I began._

It was not more than five minutes before the doctor came back and bowed his head a little while he began his message. "It's crazy how much he wants to see you..." John stood quickly and had to blink fuzzy brown spots out of his eyes. "With my permission, I will allow you to go in for as long as you want. Just don't pressure or rant with him too much. He's right down the hall. Last door on the right before you hit the next hallway."

" _Dear agony, just let go of me. Suffer slowly, is this the way it's gotta be? Don't bury me, faceless enemy. I'm so sorry. Is this the way it's gotta be? Dear agony."_

"Thanks." He departed and Watson swerved around to face Harry. "Feel free to go home," he told her. "Don't wait on me. I may be up all night with him."

"Okay," she agreed, squeezing the bump in his collar bone. "Just don't stay up too late. And get some treatment yourself," she added.

"I will." He found his own hand gently rubbing over her cheek, and with a shifting glance at the floor, he headed off in the direction of Sherlock's room, finding he didn't have the strength to hug his sister yet. He stopped outside the hospital room, the silver numbers  _17_ nailed to the front directly on center. Watson knocked three times before he heard a faint voice from within call and allow him to enter.

"Hey, John." Sherlock was propped up in the adjustable bed, a large cast visible under his hospital gown, covering most of his upper back. His voice was so silent that John could barely hear the whisper, and it sounded like Holmes was using most of his breath just to let out a few syllables.

"It's not serious, is it?" the buddy asked, refusing to close the door completely while his hand rested on the handle.

"Well, I certainly can't feel anything right now. They told me it was just a humongous bruise."

"Oh good." The wooden door closed and the two boys were lonely in the healing ward, but John remained rooted on the spot and searched for a chair to sit in. "I'm just glad you didn't break your back or sprain it." He walked heavily on his heals over to the side of the mattress, sniffing through the wire in his nostrils. It stubbornly bothered him, but he couldn't do much about it.

"What happened to you?" Sherlock's panic increased as the Gryffindor took a seat in a plastic chair to the brunette's right, but the shorter boy tried to shrug it off.

"I'm fine," he insisted, being a little harsh. "I've just got a couple burns on my arm."

"Then what's with the thing in your nose?" the eagle fired back, making awkward motions with his fingers in the air to show what he was trying to refer to.

"This is the only reason why I was able to see you in the first place," John explained, knowing Sherlock thought he looked funny with it in. He went on to make his speech more powerful. "This is how I could escape from my hospital bed to focus my aid to you. I left my sister and parents behind, just so I could sit next to you and make sure you weren't hurt."

The curly-haired Ravenclaw now had tears forming in his eyes. John had put aside all of the things most dear and important he held to him, just to be with his best friend.  _First saving me in the burning tree house, then coming to sit with me in the hospital, even when he knew it is one of my least favorite places to be caught in._

"Why?" Watson asked out of confusion, going back to his schoolmate's previous remark about his appearance, "do I really look that bad or something?"

"You've still got soot smeared on your face," Sherlock inputted, and the receiver turned to stare at his reflection in a mirror perched on the bedside table.

He did. His blond hair was almost a white-blond compared to his face, and the tube in his nose was a sort of rusty color of paper towels; not quite white and clear, but definitely changed from his facial appearances. In some places over his left cheek the ash was so dark it was black in spots, but most of it was smudged over the entirety of his skin, like someone had taken their hand and just swiped diagonally down over all his features.

"I do look like I've gone through hell, don't I?" he stated, and at once he found a sink on the other side of the room. "I don't think this will hurt to take it out for a couple minutes." He removed the wire that was tucked behind his ears and slide it out from the openings in his nose. "God, that thing feels weird," he shared, and he heard Holmes chuckled from over on his bed.

"Jesus..." He seemed to look worse in the second mirror above the wash bin, but the only way to fix his own complaining was to clean himself up. "Shoot, I have to do this with one hand too," he frowned, testing his ginger arm. "Unless I'm extremely careful." Moving it around didn't seem to spring pain to it; it was just bending and flexing it that bothered the burns.

Hot water reminded him too much of the situation of their sleeping supposedly 'fun' night together, so he twisted the cold water faucet to come on and shivered when it splashed against his face. Twice he caught his teeth chattering together, but he found it all soon over as he was glad he could have a second look at his reflection.

What was left on his pale skin was just a scrape below his right eye and various water droplets cruising down his face. He wiped them away with the palms of his hands, and then turned to address Sherlock.

"Oh. I forgot to ask where the towels are."

"Hmm," Holmes hummed, finding his younger friend to be funny in unexpected times. "Never thinking ahead, are you?"

"I'm learning." The standing person circled his head and gently breezed his arms out as he spoke.

"Try the cupboard under the random dresser." The taller wizard shooed in the direction of a wooden cabinet on the floor near the end of his bed, and when John pulled the doors aside he found half a dozen fluffy white cloths. He rubbed his face dry all around, going from the top of his skull near his hairline down to the underside of his chin. "Better?" he wondered, after he finished.

"Very much so."

"Okay. I better stick this obnoxious thing back in before I get in trouble," he grumbled, and the oxygen tank was once again hooked up to his body. He resumed to his seat and smiled gently at his neighbor, debating who would speak up first to jump into a discussion.

"How are you feeling?" the Gryffindor asked, tuning into his friend's status.

"I feel perfectly normal except for the pounding throbbing in my back, but the doctors say I have to stay here for a couple days." He made a taunting face to mock them, but John no doubt wouldn't disagree with the adults.

"Well, they're right you know. You do have to recover. Technically I should too, and I won't be surprised if they make me hop into a bed soon just like you."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over into a more lounging position, reaching out to grab his buddy's paw. Before he could say something back, John curled his fingers around his injured friend's wrist and asked a building question in his mind. "How did you not break any bones? The beam weighed three times more than you did and smacked you flat to the floor like a pancake."

"I-I..." He was hiding something and picky John could tell he was trying to be sneaky about it.

"Sherlock...What did you do?" The end result could only mean he did something to prevent the roof from bashing into him.

"I'm telling you, it did hit me!" Holmes defended. "But I will admit that I told you half of a lie." John sank in his chair and considerately wasn't surprised. He imagined the Ravenclaw had not told him the truth before in their first year at Hogwarts, and Watson even told him he would lie eventually.

 _"You'll do it when you're older."_ Images and flashbacks popped into his head, flying back to his second Quidditch game he'd finished in his previous year.

_"No I won't."_

_"Yep."_

_"Nope."_

"John?" he didn't hear the last insult from the memory, and the eagle's blurry face came back in front of his eyes. He blinked several times before still not focusing properly on his schoolmate. He almost thought he needed glasses until the bottom pit of his stomach dropped and he felt empty.

"Are you okay, John? Your face has gone pale and...you're sweating." He felt ashamed to point it out, especially right to his face.

Watson glanced down at his shirt he wore to bed from the hours previously and indeed saw patches of dark, wet spots on the cotton. He grabbed one near where his heart to try and hide it because it made him feel embarrassed, but it did no good and he forgot to answer his friend's status report.

"Actually, I feel —" He was cut off as he felt like he couldn't talk out of his throat, but in fact he'd just received a pang in his chest which left him to seem like his body was only filled with air.

Somehow he conjured up the ability to say words out loud again and he completed his unfinished sentence. "I don't feel so good."

"Jesus John. You shouldn't even be here. It's way too early in the morning and you don't deserve to be going through this."

Sherlock used a keypad with buttons on it to raise the back of his bed a little, just enough so he could properly extend out to pat his friend. "Come on. Get up," he said, and the lion pleaded with puppy eyes that he didn't want to. "Here. I'll hold your hand. Just scoot around to the other side of the mattress. There's room enough for the both of us to fit."

John nodded and accepted the offer he was given, slowly grabbing hold of the Ravenclaw's hand as he stood and avoided getting sick. Sherlock reached as far out as he could while John took tiny, shuffling steps around the perimeter of the hospital bed, and when he released his grip cause he couldn't reach anymore, the blond weakly whimpered. Steadily like a toddler he wove his way around, and when he turned the second corner he found his best friend's palm waiting to be held tightly, just for him.

With a rasping amount of strength, John thrusted his free hand forwards, refusing to let go of the sheets with his left. Somehow or another he had to finagle around with his outside arm looped between the oxygen tank handle, but it fell and dragged behind when he abandoned it for the brunette instead.

He climbed up onto the bed and felt the tube tugging behind his ears, but he pulled the oxygen tank along the floor so it was closer and didn't tangle around his body.

"I'll let you have more room," John informed, because he knew the eagle was in a worse condition than he was. He curled up on his side and tucked his knees into himself, making a little ball to cuddle more freely. The Gryffindor nestled his head in the notch on Sherlock's shoulder, closing his eyes and feeling his neighbor's chin tilt to rest on his blond locks.

John smiled still with shut eyes, not able to hide his love for their everlasting friendship from the taller patient. Recalling one of his favorite books, he felt very much like Hazel Grace and her boyfriend Augustus Waters from  _The Fault In Our Stars_ , because he knew both sets of best friends, theirs and his own, had something remarkable that no one could take away.

Trust, compassion, and a bond so strong not even the worst could break or destroy it.

And the feeling he experienced while laying there, his bandaged arm resting on his own leg, it was...

"Okay?" Sherlock asked.

The Gryffindor lion would be happy for the rest of his days, as long as the brunette was there for him.

Always.

He smiled. The answer would forever be so. "Most definitely okay."


	6. Redbeard

**MCC #2: Reflection Unveils Ocean Eyes (Chapter 6)**

Redbeard 

* * *

"G."

John's feet molded to the top step of a ladder. In what his tiny hand could supply was a thick stack of novels, and the color left the pads of his heels as they were imprinted with the striped pattern on the stool. Stories written by his most beloved authors lined the upper section of his bedroom on polished wooden shelves, and he plucked a select bunch from they're desired spots. These he was going to take with him during his second year at Hogwarts, as so it was he had to rearrange so the overall appearance of his home didn't bother him.

The books he stashed in alphabetical order by the writer's last name, and he muttered the letter he was on as the order passed on leisurely. Talking aloud kept him productive, even if an easy and reasonable substitution could have been to listen to music.

John got to the letter combination of 'Gr' before noticing that one of the best books he owned was missing. His heart sank a little when he recalled that the pages must had burned the night of the tree house fire, and he was saddened and concluded that he'd have to purchase a second copy. Watson sighed and returned to arranging the novels, leaving a wide enough space in honor of  _The Fault In Our Stars,_ a classic he would one day remember to bring a new copy home in the old one's blank place.

As he grabbed a new cloth to wipe the dust off the covers, a glint caught his attention as the hidden object reflected sunlight from the open window behind him onto his chest. He slid his fingers between the book before the empty hole and the next selection to pull out his birthday present from Sherlock.

The mirror sent an image of his own shocking blue iris back at him, positioned just so accurately and by great chance that it showed himself. As it stood up the blond tilted it so the pendant rotated 90 degrees counterclockwise…

But Sherlock wasn't there on the other side.

Instead, all John saw was the tiles on the ceiling of a hospital ward, a distant light shining in the top right corner as the angle that he stared into was slightly off‒center. The fuzzy edge of a bed sheet was also in the frame, so clearly Sherlock had his magical object with him, only it was lying on the mattress and the Gryffindor's call was being unanswered to.

"Three days," John whispered, a break in his sentence from the uneasiness the lonely feeling gave him. "I guess I just never realized it was that long, and I just got lucky to be able to leave and recover so quickly." He was speaking to something he knew couldn't respond back, especially since Holmes wasn't able to see him to witness John's ramble.

"I mean, I don't know Sherlock." No he was descending from the stepstool to take a few minutes rest, literally saying things out loud like his head had exploded and his thoughts were dumping to fill the gaps in his bedroom chamber. "I just don't know. Why did I save you? Obviously because you're my —" he gulped, "best friend, but there's another reason. Perhaps it was out of bravery, or maybe pure loyalty?" He exhaled deeply and sagged his shoulders. John flopped on his bed and let his back gently slam into the wall. "I should have been a hatstall," he mumbled. "I really don't know where I belong anymore."

A knock on the door made his muscles flinch but his bones didn't bend. He hummed in a low tone to allow the family member to enter, and to his despondency Harriet swiftly came in to check on him.

From beyond his bent knees he followed his sister's shadow with his eyes on the carpet as she walked in, her hand still fixed on the door handle. "Hey buddy," she said. He looked up from across the room at the mention of his brand new nickname she'd elected to call him. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Was I being too loud or distracting?"

"Um, I was just going to say that I wasn't bothering me much. I just heard you speaking and knew no one else was with you."

"I don't know why I do it," John honestly commented. "It comforts me for some strange reason," he implied inferring directly to his ranting out loud for others to hear. The sounds of birds chirped outside the window on his right, and some puffy clouds in the sky were a pale orange color from the blinding sun.

A creature zooming in the direction of their house suddenly caught his eye, and he jumped up to squint in the distance above the neighborhood houses where Sherlock lived. Pushing the panel up and catching a glimpse of the shutters on the outside of his room, he nearly threw himself out the window in order to get a pristine glance at what was flying towards him.

He double checked the date on his watch.  _Surely this is nothing of importance,_ he hoped.  _I've done nothing wrong!_ His Hogwarts letter had already arrived, so who was attempting to contact him?

The owl dove gracefully to swipe through the air and land perched upright on the windowsill as John scooted out of the way. The pet hopped inside with a hoot, and Harry back stepped in the doorway, still uncomfortable with a wild animal used for wizard postal service to be in the same area as her.

Watson had studied the same curly handwriting millions of times as his only female Hufflepuff friend wrote essays and did homework with him, and he ripped open the envelope eagerly to find an evenly spaced message from Molly Hooper inside.

_Hey John!_

_I hope you're having a wonderful summer so far. (I borrowed the owl from a friend in case you were wondering. Her name is Janine and she's going to be a first year at Hogwarts this year.) Anyways, I've had quite an adventure this past month. My parents took me on a trip to Italy, which I highly enjoyed._

_Lestrade hasn't kept in touch with me at all. I'm not sure about you, but I think he keeps forgetting. Would you care to meet me in Diagon Alley with Sherlock during the last full week in August? We could buy our new school supplies and then head to Hogwarts straight from there?_

_Again, I hope both of you are doing well! I can't wait to see you all again!_

_-Molly Hooper_

_P.S. Encased is something for you and Sherlock._

At the mention of a gift, John went back to the owl's leg and found a square package. Peeling back the paper and promising to show his best friend later, Watson revealed a box of Italian chocolates, some of the finest in the country.

He opened a desk drawer and dug around for an extra piece of paper, and he ended up ripping out a couple pages from an old, unused journal. Placing them leisurely on top of the table, he turned on the spot and continued to clean his bookshelves. As he almost slipped on his way up the small set of stairs, his sister extended out an arm to make sure he didn't accidentally tumble backwards.

"Careful," she told him, releasing some pressure from the hand that was pushing against his spine. "Don't fall."

"I'm okay, Harry."

"You sure you don't want any help?" She was officious and kept bugging to eventually get a final answer.

"No, I'm good. I'll just put on some music so I don't start...making weird noises again."

"Oh. Well if you need anything, I'll be upstairs."

"Okay. Thanks."

And she left him with a swift wave of her arm. The door clicked as he was shut into the cramped area, and he gathered up the last pile of books he'd been dusting to carry on with his work.

John nearly had a heart attack when he briefly checked the mirror in his pendant, because there was now half of Sherlock's face in the rectangular frame. If a snapshot could have captured the picture, it would have looked like a character poster from a movie. His cheekbone reached to the middle of the surface area, and a little more than three quarters of his nose was visible. But the background next to his chin was moving and fading in and out of focus, which only meant one thing.

He was moving. And not only that, but outside too, because there were green leaves swaying on trees and a ocean blue sky through the gaps in his brunette curls; the same blue sky that was on the other side of John's window. He even recognized the scenery as the corner of the edge of the street he lived on.

A vibration noise came from the dresser below his knees and he looked down to see that his cell phone had lit up. Descending with agility, he hopped off the final step and his ankle cracked as he reached to collect the mobile device.

A text from none other than Sherlock Holmes was practically flashing on the screen before his pupils, screaming joy that passed into his smiling gasp, through his body and into his heart.

**I'm coming home. -SH**

* * *

Immediately John dropped the heavy stack of novels he was holding, but gently enough so they weren't damaged, and bolted out the front door of his home. As he skipped excitedly, he nearly crashed into Harriet, who looked startled and shouted to her brother as he darted around the car in their driveway.

"Where are you going?"

John peered over his shoulder and twisted his upper body to yell back. His hands were held aloft by his sides as he spoke, and he was so jumpy he didn't sound like himself as he replied.

"Sherlock's back!"

His sister understood at once, and she chuckled as he went off to greet his best buddy. While he sprinted down the road, Harry cupped the palms of her hands around her lips and cheered on her younger sibling. "Run John, run!"

His plaid shorts became a blur of three colors as he traveled so fast, molding into a grayscale like in art class. The collar of his purple shirt blew in the wind, and as he turned a curve to end up on the final straight piece of his road, he halted in such a dazed and emotionally thrilled state to catch the first glimpse of his best friend in five days.

In the distance, walking slightly hunched over with no wires needed for medical purposes or badly evident injuries, was Sherlock.

John threw up his elbow into the sky with enthusiasm and waved with all the energy he had, just to let the Ravenclaw know how much he was missed. Even from a fourth of a mile away, John saw him gesture in return and laugh.

As he heaved in a new mound of fresh air, John sped up his walking pace into a jog, feeling the seasonal heat beat down on him as tiny sweat droplets dotted the edge of his hair around his ears. Then he forced his legs to move with excessive speed, the flip in the front of his blond locks flying upwards in the breeze.

As he was slowing down to make sure he didn't knock his schoolmate over, he heard the older boy say something comforting as he opened his arms for a proper greeting.

"Ah, there's my fantastic lion!"

John fell into the eagle's arms from the loss of breath, but he was so relieved that the taller wizard had been released from the hospital recovered so quickly. "You have no idea how alone I was these past couple days," he muttered into the brunette's shoulder bone, tracing the yellow line in the center of the street with his field of vision.

"Well," Holmes said, pulling back to stare correctly at the cuteness of his little buddy, "I'm back now."

John smiled and linked arms with the older kid, guiding him to his house for a little time together.

"Now what was the point in coming down here?" Sherlock questioned, raising an eyebrow. "You just have to wall back again."

There's was nothing too bad about that. John grinned. "It'll be worth it. It's always worth it when you're here."

Sherlock smirked and kind of snickered. "You're too fond of me, John."

"Nothing wrong with that, right?"

"Nope. As long as it's you."

* * *

"Where are we going? We walked right past the front door," the blond protested.

"We're not going to your house. We're going to mine." John looked like he was being sassed and opened his mouth in an alarmed but agreeable expression.

"Oh, I see how it is then," he joked. "I had a treat for you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Molly sent me a letter with a box of chocolates from Italy with it. Lucky girl."

"I see." There was a silence before Sherlock asked a general question. "How is she?"

"Sounds great for the most part. She's met a new friend who is also a wizard."

"Name?"

"Janine."

"Decent," he offered his opinion.

"Yeah, if I'd say so myself. Not very common." John followed as a companion while they strolled across the vast meadow, blowing memories all around like comparing them to the silver dandelions growing between the blades of grass.

When they approached the back door of the house, Holmes pivoted on his heel and indicated to his Gryffindor partner. "I want to show you something." The door on the backside of the house was rarely used, and John had certainly never seen Sherlock enter in or out of it before.

"What does that mean?"

"It's something very special to me that I think you should see before..." He paused to swallow a large clump of gunk in the back of his throat. "Before it's too late."

"Okay..."

As he exhaled, Sherlock turned the brass handle to slip the door wider inch by inch, as if he was afraid something would pop out at him if he opened it regularly. Inside the room was almost completely black except for a dim light overhead, and when the sunlight crept in and cut through the shadows, John could see the shape of an animal through the gap between Sherlock's arm and ribs in a secluded corner.

The dog lifted its sorrow head as Holmes delicately stepped into what looked like a shed. And from their conversation earlier that month, John realized who the Irish Settler was. But Sherlock said the name before he could prove his assumption to be true.

"Hello Redbeard." The Ravenclaw slowly offered his fingers out for the pet to sniff, but he was too far away. Redbeard reached his nose up into nothing but thin air, trying to do his best to touch his owner. Bending his knees as he got closer, Sherlock knelt down on the dusty floor and pressed his fingernails right up against the animal's nose, absorbing the wet liquid that lined the dog's nostrils.

When Redbeard was friendly enough to allow his owner to pet him, the brunette stroked his back and tummy, giving the dog extreme love as he became almost spoiled by the wizard. Sherlock spun on his feet in his crouched position to beckon John over who looked frightened but touched at the same time, still standing and leaning with little weight on the door frame.

"Come here," he explained, flexing his hand to tell the Gryffindor to move closer. "Say hi. He won't mind. He's very friendly."

Watson wasn't exactly sure why he was hesitant to advance, especially since he had a dog at home himself. "He doesn't bite," Sherlock promised, "he's actually really shy around newcomers."

With baby strides, the blond glued his eyes on the puppy, walking without haste over to where Holmes was settled. "Wait, hang on," the eagle suddenly said, ordering for the lion to stop. "Let's see what you can do little boy." He got up and went to stand with John before tapping his palms on his thighs.

"Come here boy. You can do it Redbeard. Come to me." And with a tremendous amount of the only strength the animal had, the Irish Settler was able to hoist itself onto its stubby legs and gallop over to his owner, letting out a small bark from his mouth.

"Good boy!" The wizard dove down to collect his puppy in his arms, squeezing Redbeard in a heartwarming hug.

"What's wrong with him?" John asked, noticing the dog was very shaky on his legs and simply struggled to walk.

Sherlock had trouble spitting out the reason and his voice shook when he explained the answer. "He's been really sick. We're trying to treat him, but it's not looking so good."

"Well, maybe me and my mom could help?" the blond suggested. "She is a professional doctor after all. She could at least give you some hint as to what's wrong with him."

"You can if you want to," the curly-haired boy assumed, rubbing the dog's face and an ear as it was a delight to Redbeard, "but I doubt it would do much good."

John stood in silence for a while before Sherlock looked back up and wondered why the Gryffindor wasn't acting. "Why aren't you saying hello?"

"Right!" Slowly and with caution as not to scare the pet, Watson sat on the creaking floorboards and extended out his hand for the dog to sniff. It did so and let the newcomer rub under his chin, and as John gave the dog some comfort, just the tiniest of things to make its life a little happier, he smiled and play along as Sherlock remained by his side.

 _Such a sweet puppy,_ the younger wizard thought, feeling the stickiness of the red-haired animal's tongue skim over his cheek. He laughed and giggled and spoke for the first time to what could have been a new friend of his.

"Hello Redbeard."

* * *

On the Wednesday during the week of August 24th, Sherlock and John both spent the day packing their trunks for Hogwarts of the supplies they had. They made sure to take a few spare changes of clothes for the coming days they'd spend in Diagon Alley, Sherlock packing some buttoned–down shirts with nice pants and John polo tops with short sleeves and longer pairs of shorts.

John insisted to have Skype open on his mum's laptop so he could video chat with Sherlock as they packed their luggage. He wanted to make sure the Ravenclaw didn't leave anything behind or not take enough clothing, so they went through a list of things together and checked off items as they were neatly stashed into their trunks.

Watson was in charge of announcing the list through the computer screen. Part way through their conversations, Sherlock had to mess with his electronic device because he didn't know how to work it properly, being from a Pureblood wizard family and all. Phones, yes he could use for emergency purposes, even if he fooled around with it all the time, but anything else tricked him.

"How do I get rid of this…large blue space at the bottom?"

"You're very descriptive, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and stopped storing old Potions tools to stare into the video. "Can you give me a little more than that?"

"There's a white box at the bottom. I must have pushed a button because now it wants me to send a message to you."

"Okay. There should be a button on the video screen that looks like a tiny speech bubble. If it's orange, press it." The lion ordered for the eagle to do so, but the brunette just came back with an argument.

"But if it's lit up, wouldn't I not want to touch it? I'll mess up the program or something."

"No you won't, Sherlock! It's not going to spread a virus or anything. Trust me; we've had that happen before. Just push it." The older boy sighed and fiddled with the laptop mouse. There was a  _click,_  and by the look of relief on his face he'd done it.

"Okay. I got it fixed."

"See? Now don't fidget with it anymore," John warned him. "That's just what we need is you getting worked up over a stupid device with wires and switches inside." Sherlock really had to bite back a pissed off expression at his friend's comment.

"Fine. What's next on the list?"

"Socks."

"Socks," the younger Holmes brother mumbled, somehow disapproved. "Really necessary, John."

The blond fired back a point that was important with such an adult voice. "No socks equal bad blisters. Suffer if you want to."

"No. Wearing dress shoes without socks are just dorky."

John bursted out laughing. "Since when did you become a fashion expert?"

"I'm not going to go around looking like a fool," he said during the video chat as a wave of static cut through their internet connection.

"Suit yourself?"

"How much more do we have to do?" the brunette complained.

"Do you fancy walking around Hogwarts without any underwear on?"

"No!"

"Then shut up and do as you're told. Pack." Holmes grunted from being told what to do by someone who was younger than himself.

* * *

John was gifted with a long farewell from his parents and sibling Thursday morning around eleven before he departed for Sherlock's house. He'd been told that apparently they weren't traveling by Muggle transportation, but he made no arguments with the Holmes family.

He lugged his trunk across the field and attempted to skip up to the front door of their home, knocking politely to wish to ask permission to enter.

The barrier swung open to reveal Mrs. Holmes, and John bowed his upper chest a little in the presence of the witch, who was neatly dressed in dark blue sparkly robes.

"Hello Mrs. Holmes! Nice to see you today!" he squeaked.

"John! It's always a delight to have you over. Do come in." She stood aside to let him hop up into the front entrance, pulling his trunk and Athiel in her cage behind him.

"Hey John!" Sherlock greeted swiftly, standing in the vast living room while turning up the coat collar of his black jean jacket. Mycroft scowled right behind him in the usual preppy tuxedo, and Mr. Holmes adjusted the strap of his red robes around his neck.

"Alright. You can just set your things down right in here," Sherlock's mum told him, and the lone Watson piled his baggage and scooted his belongings out of the way into an empty corner.

"Everyone ready to go?" Mr. Holmes spoke out loud now, his deep voice echoing off the walls as he stepped up to the front of the small bundle of people. "Good. Sherlock, why don't you inform John how this is done correctly? He's got handle it the right way."

_So, there's a procedure? What am I even doing?_

He suddenly felt his skin being tickled as Sherlock whispered a short set of instructions into his ear, and he had to clarify a few things multiple times to make sure he didn't screw up.

"Mikey? Why don't you go first."

"Mycroft is the name you gave me. Why don't you use it," he groaned with attitude, and his mother scolded him afterwards for the remark.

"Behave Mike," she demanded, smacking him on his buttocks as he passed by.

As odd as it was, there was said to be a method to traveling in the wizarding world by fireplaces. Mycroft lowered his neck to bend down and fit in the stone box. Then, his father held out a matching rusty, stone cup filled with powder, which the oldest brother took a small pinch of in his hands.

Mrs. Holmes nodded as if to remind him of something, and just before Mycroft released the substance in his palm he shouted, "Diagon Alley!"

A bright green flame had erupted from the floor of the fireplace, covering the oldest brother like a wave of fury. Mycroft didn't so much as flinch, and John was alarmed and thought he'd burned to death before remembering it was a clever form of magic to transport people.

"Sherlock, come. You're next." The next descendant of the Holmes parents eagerly stepped up. His head was about a foot from the roof made of stone, and when he was prepared to leave winked at John and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Diagon Alley!"

He too vanished in a massive clump of fire, and as the flames shortened the father motioned for the Gryffindor to go next. John always considered Mrs. and Mr. Holmes his second parents, just because they were so willing to tend to his needs as they treated him like a son.

"Alright." Mrs. Holmes reached under as John took a bit of the floo powder, giving him last minute instructions. "Remember; speak as clearly as you can." He nodded shyly and straightened up with a scared emotion pasted on his face, but he nevertheless was able to say the destination with boldness in his tone.

"Diagon Alley!"

It really just felt like a rush of cold wind as he vanished from the Holmes' living room and passed through a black darkness, but then his feet slid out from under him and he arrived in a clumsier style than he'd anticipated.

He forgot to consider the landing.

He coughed and brushed bits of gravel from his black shirt, blinking as he tried to bring his new location into focus. A side room in  _The Leaky Cauldron_ was where he ended up. 

"Epic wipeout," the voice of a fellow schoolmate chuckled, but it certainly wasn't Sherlock. John tried to pick out who the strong boasting belonged to.

"Up you get."  _Now that's definitely Sherlock._ An arm helped him to stand, but he swayed as he got slightly dizzy and light–headed. "Ha, side effects are getting to you," Holmes justified, slapping him across the shoulder blades.

"Well don't you look dandy!" John tilted his head to the right to find none other than a Gryffindor roommate of his own. And of course, he was beaming to add to his own fondness of himself. "If it isn't John 'handsome' Watson."

"I hear you Lestrade. I hear you."

* * *

Miss Molly Hooper was sitting outside the ice cream parlor when they first spotted her, and she and Greg had been shopping for new books the previous day for fun. She welcomed them each with a charming, "Hello!" as she munched happily on a medium sized sundae. Her ginger ponytail swayed when she moved her head, and she'd patched up her shiningly beautiful face with a base layer of foundation makeup to look spiffy.

All four of them sat at the circular table discussing their summer holidays, of which Molly was awarded with the best and Sherlock and John the most productive. Lestrade literally did nothing but laze around in the sun or go swimming, so at least it was a decent Muggle–related June, July, and August.

"So how were the chocolates that I sent you?" Hooper asked John. "I had ones that were different from yours, so I wouldn't know."

"Oh, they were delicious!" Watson exclaimed back, grateful that Molly had been so kind to send them in the first place.

"Glad to hear!"

"So," Greg inputted, starting up a conversation since he could actually do such a thing, "where to as an opening to our shopping spree?"

"We might actually just chill out here today before we get started tomorrow," Sherlock stated, leaning back in the restaurant chair as if it was a lounging couch. "My parents are off figuring out their own business, so John and I are free to do whatever till September 1st."

* * *

September 1st. The early rouse on Monday morning came in a flash and John felt himself being shaken awake by his best friend. "Come on John. We've got to be out of here in fifteen minutes!"

"Are you kidding me?" the blond flipped out, a hint of grogginess still in his throat. He had a bed head, his sandy locks sticking out in all directions. "You couldn't have gotten me up earlier?"

Evidently he was dressed and out the door in ten minutes, grabbing a bagel and a blueberry muffin as a meal for breakfast. He'd done his best to flatten his hair with a comb, but it still stuck up in the back significantly. He didn't even have time to secure his transparent white shirt by threading the buttons through the holes, so it flew in the air behind him as the green tank top under covered his stomach. His khaki shorts molded to his legs to allow him to run, and he didn't halt until he huffed in the back of the van they were riding in on the way to King's Cross station.

When they arrived, bags and trunks were shuffled around hurriedly, and once everyone had the corresponding luggage they were off and dodging people in the building. The kids had a race with their carts except Mycroft, who refused to humiliate himself in a public facility. When citizens became close they slowed down to move around them, but as soon as an open area was exposed the four friends bolted once more.

"Ten minutes!" Lestrade yelled for each of them to comprehend, and Sherlock glanced up to check which platform they were on. 6, close to their ending place.

Sherlock scooted to a halt first at the invisible and imaginary finish line thanks to his long legs, and he surprised to turn around and find Molly stopping second. John took third and Greg came last, simply because he stopped trying altogether about halfway through.

But he was the first to run through the barrier between platforms nine and ten, speeding joyfully and hollering, "Geronimo!" which he got several stares from strangers for.

John decided to join in on the ridiculous humor. "For the Shire!" he awkwardly shouted, yelping out a random battle cry that was irrelevant to them beginning their second year at Hogwarts.

And what was the weirdest was that Molly followed as well. "I am the Mockingjay!"

"And I suppose I have to say something too," Sherlock assumed to himself, just as the adults pulled up behind him. But they had no time to ask what was going on before he sprinted towards the brick wall as well.

"The game is on!"

As usual, or at least it was normal for him, he passed right through the wall between platforms nine and ten, feeling not a single pang of pain as he was transferred to a hidden section of King's Cross. Tuning into the sounds of the noisy crowd, he grinned before spinning around to find the sign hanging above his head full of curls.  _Platform 9 ¾, Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry._

 _I'm finally going back._ A spark lit in his chest as he became spastic inside.  _I'm going…home._

"Oi, dreamy." Greg had disturbed his moment of peace and motioned that they had to move on and grab a compartment before they were all taken.

Sherlock, John, Molly, and Lestrade went directly to the back of the steaming, scarlet engine to drop off their pets, except for Tasha, Molly's cat that planned to ride with them. The owls were a distraction last time, and so they were placed in the caboose with the rest of the hooting animals.

They pushed past blobs of wizards and students with their heavy trunks to get to a door entrance onto the train. As John was leading the way, the other three of his schoolmates crashed into one another when he stopped abruptly to stare down the long platform.

"What John?" Sherlock asked, somehow forcing himself to stand next to his trusty lion. "What's wrong?" he said, spotting the look etched on the kid's face.

When he didn't speak, Sherlock checked in the direction where the Gryffindor had his eyes locked on, and the Ravenclaw knew on instinct what was wrong.

Their Slytherin enemy, standing with Irene Adler mysteriously absent, was farther up the train station. But he was talking, having a casual interaction with a new human being they'd never seen before. A tall boy with a slightly less stocky build than John and sleek, dark brown hair that flipped over his skull from an off–center part, so dark it almost looked like tree bark. 

"It's Moriarty," John said sullenly, pointing to the second year serpent who was dressed in a brand new black suit. Hair perfectly slicked back, he caught their eyes and smirked rudely as the shortest boy of the four friends finished his sentence unwillingly. "He's gone and got himself a bloody sidekick."

**Author's Note:**

> *I also do not own these songs I used. The lyrics belong to their rightful owners. They are:
> 
> -Wake Me Up by Avicii
> 
> -It's Time by Imagine Dragons


End file.
